


Lord Bettany's Lover

by Roo_Bastmoon



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 07:10:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 83,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roo_Bastmoon/pseuds/Roo_Bastmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in Victorian England. Young Lord Paul Bettany is a brilliant classical music composer, struggling against the ministrations of his ambitious family and the limitations his own frail health. His mundane existence is suddenly introduced to vibrant color and unexpected passion when he is pulled into an unlikely affair with Mr. Russell Crowe, the estate’s hard-edged horse-master. But can such a tenuous, divided relationship survive the family’s plans for Paul’s future?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is Real Person Slash, but not really, because I don’t deal with the actors or their personal lives at ALL, I just cast their faces in the roles of this totally original timeline and plot. I think RPS, like all fantasy, is harmless fun, but I hope I always manage to maintain respect for real actors. 
> 
> Warnings: graphic homosexual sex, some sap, occasional weeping, actual plot, real person fiction, alternate universe, age play (Russ: 33, Paul: 27) very, very loosely based on Lady Chatterley’s Lover.

**Chapter 1: A Hollow Box**

Master Bettany’s table was, by every distinction, a disaster. Sheets of music, stuck together under rings of teacup stains. Abandoned plates, contents left half-eaten, stacked together in a leaning tower that seemingly defied gravity. Broken quills. Horrid, irremovable ink stains. _Crumbs_. It was, to the untrained eye, an exercise in utter chaos, not to be borne. 

However, to Paul’s mind, everything was in scrupulous order. Everything important, at least. His music – the final drafts – were neatly sorted and tied together with good, strong twine, lovingly arranged by movement and alphabetized by symphonic title. This he kept in strict accord, as he had been taught to do when he had attended Cambridge. The rest of the room? Much like the table – absolutely squalid. 

But the servants indulged him, of course, because they loved him. Perhaps it was that shy smile of his, or the apologetic tilt of his head, as if to say, ‘pardon me for even _having_ servants, I know I’m unbearable, do see your way to forgiveness,’ and certainly they always did – for young Lord Bettany hardly ever spoke, rarely asked for much of anything, and never forgot a birthday. Even the scullery maids and stable boys received something in the way of a present each year, without fail. Paul wore this polite consideration for others about him like a casual robe – a second skin – it never occurred to him that he was unique.

This diffidence was in stark contrast to the rest of the Bettany family. Lady Vanessa Bettany had a high, shrill voice – almost as piercing as her icy blue eyes – and was given to making demands. Never outrageous demands, but never simplistic ones, either. She had a cool head and colder heart and every servant of the manor was terrified of her, save one, and he was known to fear no one. Lord Christopher Bettany paid no mind to the servants; in fact, they could lie bleeding on the floor and he’d just as soon step over them and ask what time would tea be served? No, Paul was nothing like his parents. 

His sister was of a somewhat kinder nature – Lady Jennifer Connelly Bettany – of sweet face, and sweeter voice, if given to frequent outbursts of Suffrage temperament. It was to be expected in girls of her age, so lately wed. Twenty-two when she walked down the aisle this past April. Amazing it was that she could even catch a husband, let alone one so rich and handsome as Sir Jason Isaacs. They both had long, dark hair and blue, intelligent eyes, and made quite the striking couple at every gala or fete while on the continent. 

Not that Paul went to many parties. On the continent or the isles. Paul never went much of anywhere at all, really. He stayed in his room – something Lady Bettany greatly approved of, considering his fragile health – and read his books, drank his tea, and if the mood could be harnessed, composed.

The only way the servants could be sure he was alive was when he took to banging out an arpeggio or two on his piano. A new model, very modern, gleaming with immaculate polish and in perfect tune, the piano was the symbol of the one great battle that Paul had waged with his parents and won. The lord of the house hated the blasted contraption, but the servants enjoyed the bursts of sound immensely. Master Bettany played his music, and it would echo through the grand chateau, the beat of his fingers on the keys something like a pulse. The heart, a hollow box of wood and strings, thumping through the lonely house. 

Paul’s music was always somber. Some might call it sad. It was powerful, it was entrancing, it was even subtle and lingering, at times. But always drenched in something slightly tragic. A heaviness in every note, like an olive drowned in oil.

He had tried writing happier songs. As he had tried many normal gentlemanly pursuits – hunting, and then smoking, and billiards, Ascot, opera, even cards. It all seemed a farce. And his mother scarcely approved of anything that kept him in the vicinity of her friends for very long, for he was awkward at social occasions. 

That was why today was so very odd. Downright unusual, even. 

He was sitting at his table, sipping weak tea, (Mother always insisted it be weak so as not to upset his kidneys – quill twirling between his thumb and forefinger) a great symphony on the verge of birth – when she burst in through the door without so much as a by-your-leave. 

“Oh, really,” she said with a remarkably exaggerated sigh, “do open a window. It is summer; there is no breeze.” She was referring to his lungs, of course. Mother was always very conscious of the state of his lungs. “It reeks. You haven’t let Mister Edgar take your food down in days.”

“Sorry, Mother.”

She nodded absently, grey ringlets falling on her forehead before she swiftly reminded them of their proper place. “I’ve come today on a specific errand.” 

That had Paul straightening instantly in his seat. “You are to be washed and dressed well before six this evening. Your presence is required tonight.”

“Tonight?” Paul asked, frowning. 

Lady Bettany thinned her lips. “The _party_ , dear. Your sister’s first party since returning from honeymoon?”

“Ah.” He relaxed. Jenny wouldn’t insist on him there. “I hadn’t thought to go.” Paul sipped some more of his insufferably weak tea. 

“I know you hadn’t, but now you shall.” Lady Bettany eyed the fresh ink stains on the table linen with something akin to loathing. “You cannot stay up in this tower day and night; people will think you quite mad. And it would not harm you to show some support for your sister – arranging this happy marriage was nothing short of difficult.” 

Oh, indeed, Paul thought. Nothing short of a dowry of two-thousand-a-year and a good portion of the lands in the south. “Yes, Mother. But I’ve been working on something rather important, as you see —”

“It will keep for one _night_ , Paulie.” She pouted, the wrinkles around her mouth drawing regimented lines. “Do I ask too much?”

Paul had not a Machiavellian bone in his body, but even he knew the politics of a disappointed Lady Bettany were the politics of a vengeful Lady Bettany. “Not at all, Mother. Forgive me.” He went to kiss her hand but she was never fond of such displays and so he merely covered it tentatively for a moment and then let go. “I shall be delighted to attend. Six o’clock.”

“And wear the blue suit, dear. The grey makes you look as pale as ash.” She pressed the back of her hand to his cheek and, satisfied that he would not die of fever that afternoon, turned to leave. “I shall send Mister Edgar up for you at five. And I’ll have him clear away… some of your things.”

“Not the table,” Paul reminded sharply, voice rising on this distinct occasion. “He’s not to touch the table.”

Lady Bettany’s eyes traveled to the ceiling, asking the Lord for patience, no doubt, and then nodded and shut the door. 

The symphony would have to wait. A summer party instead. Cravats. Waistcoats. Talcum powder sticking under his arms and boring conversation with insipid females, whom his mother would no doubt find charming, and then try to come to some arrangement with their families oh his behalf, if he was not extremely careful. 

He sighed. Jenny decidedly owed him a favor. But in all the world she was his one true friend and so he rallied. Just a few more bars and then he would turn his attention to her coming-home celebration.

Twirling the quill once more, he set to work. Soon he could forget the room – its open window, its stifling heat. The walls melted away into vague white. The sounds of the house dimmed. Even his body seemed to dissolve and he listened – strained – to hear an odd sound: dink, dink, dink; relentless. 

From the stables below – someone was hammering out a horseshoe or some such thing. Dink. Dink. Dink. Insistent, exacting. Iron bending and flattening against an anvil. It was positively inspirational, drifting up to his window, keeping time for him. He dipped his quill into the ink and was lost for several hours. 

He did not hear Mr. Edgar knock the first several times. Finally the old man simply entered. 

“Master Paul?” Mr. Edgar asked quietly from the doorway. 

“Just leave it on the dresser,” Paul said absently, not interested in lunch. 

“No, sir. I am here to see to you for the party?”

It was there, he almost had it and then – wait, party? Paul blinked. Looked at Mr. Edgar as if he were seeing him for the first time. “What?”

The lines on the butler’s face, hundreds of little ones, creased into something that Paul had learned since childhood to recognize as a smile. “The party, sir. It’s five o’clock and I am to see to it —”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes!” Paul jumped up, nearly upsetting the ink again, and smiled warmly. “Yes. Mother has me going to that. So sorry... I was...” He indicated his table. 

“Yes, sir.” Mr. Edgar waited for a moment then cleared his throat. “Er... perhaps I might take down your dishes, sir, while you take your bath? The tub at the end of the hall is filled and all is prepared. I had Charlie see to that your salts were put in, sir.”

“Ah, thank you, Mister Edgar. What shall I have done without you, I wonder?” He shimmied out of his lucky, hole-filled robe, oblivious to the fact that his white shirt clung to his ridiculously thin frame, damp with sweat and ink stains. He stopped at Mr. Edgar’s horrified expression.

“Shall I...” Mr. Edgar had to swallow before continuing, “shall I have that washed for you, sir?”

Paul looked down at himself. The maids would spend half the day scrubbing this and never get anywhere with it. “No, I think it’s done for.” He slipped it over his head and rolled it up in a ball. “Why not just put it to a good end and mum’s the word, ay?”

Mr. Edgar smiled. A canyon crevice of good will. “Very good, sir.”

“I shall be a good boy now and wash. You must clean up my mess, I’m afraid. Though do be sure —”

“Not to touch the table. Yes, sir.” Mr. Edgar did a damned good job of keeping the knowing smirk from his face. 

“Right.” Paul gave him a lop-sided grin. “Thank you, Mister Edgar. You’re very kind.”

The butler seemed taken aback at this. “It is not hard to be so, sir, when people are kind to one.” He collected up the plates and cups and Paul left him to it, eager for water and soap and a reprieve from hunching his knotted shoulders all day. 

He indulged a bit, perhaps, scrubbing from head to toe, trimming his nails, which must always be kept low so as to play the piano and, even more importantly, his grandfather’s cello, and then soaking for a bit while the heat seeped out of the bath and the salts made the water soft. Mr. Edgar’s knock surprised him again, and then it was a quick towel-off and a mad dash back to the room, where his clothes had been laid out for him. 

Cotton under-breeches for the heat, and a white cotton shirt, (Mother distinctly disliked America, but would never impugn the quality of its cotton) but there was no getting out of the silk stockings. Grey trousers, plain but adequate. Blue satin waistcoat, pale and slick, and a dark, navy overcoat. Next the bloody tie, a thing he hated even more than sitting in church, and a quick polish of his brass buttons and black, shiny boots. “I almost look a gentlemen,” he joked quietly.

“That you do, sir,” Mr. Edgar said, brushing imaginary specks from his shoulders. 

“Did you ever wonder where I got this blond hair from?” Paul asked at random, staring at himself in the full-length mirror. “Do you suppose Mother had a torrid and scandalous affair when she was younger?”

Mr. Edgar gaped like a fish. “I wouldn't presume to think on it, sir.”

Paul leaned back toward the old butler. “I rather think it means there’s hope for me yet!” They shared a silent chuckle – neither one of them given to laughing out loud – and then the wrinkled Mr. Edgar patted Paul's arms and turned him around in a rare, fatherly gesture. 

“Almost six, sir, and Lady Bettany will be waiting.”

“I’ll be hanged if I’m going down there alone. Has my sister arrived?” He fussed with his fringe a bit – his hair never... quite... _settled_ as it should. 

“Lady Isaacs is in the drawing room, I expect, sir.”

Lady Isaacs. So strange; all these years she had been Lady Jennifer Connelly Bettany. Now Lady Jennifer Connelly Isaacs. Whatever her title, she had always been Jenny to him. He hoped her marriage would not change that, for he had so few friends and even fewer people in all the world who understood what his music meant to him. He had been lonely since her wedding day. His younger sister married and now he walked the grey gap in between childhood and being an adult in singularity.

“I shall go to Jenny, then. Thank you, Mister Edgar.”

“Enjoy your evening, sir.”

Like hell, Paul thought, but merely nodded and made his way downstairs. 

“Paul!” Jenny called out to him from the base of the banister, eager to give him a hug. They embraced and Paul was shocked to catch the scent of cigars and something male underneath the familiar whiff of perfume and lace. Sir Isaacs. She was no longer that gangly child given to climbing trees and putting on plays with her dolls. He missed those times, before the accident.

“Jenny, darling.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, mindful of her elaborate hair-style. “Welcome home. You’ve been in England all this time, and have only just now come to see us… Not that I blame you,” he whispered conspiratorially. 

She giggled quietly. “Jason has been much engaged with business. While he is away, I help with the Suffrage newspapers. You won’t tell, will you?” Dearest Jenny.

Paul grinned. “I should think not. Besides, his reaction will be nothing compared to if Mother found out.”

Jenny grimaced, a look that did nothing at all to compliment the soft femininity of her pale peach dress. “How goes your writing?”

Sighing, he let her lead him deeper into the room. The servants lit the myriad of candles and put trays of food on the cloth-covered tables. “Well enough. Snatches, bits and pieces, really. I sense it, just on the precipice, but something’s holding me back. I lack a muse, I suppose, since my dear sister left me.”

“I am home now, dearest, and only four miles away.”

But Father refused to purchase one of those new automobiles and so four miles was a lifetime away. An entire neighborhood – an entire niche, away. “You must promise to visit often, when you are not liberating your fellow sisters from the shackles of misogyny.”

“Oh, Paul, really!” Her eyes had a light behind them, but also something hard – she wore her marriage as a necessary mask, an automatic motion, alien to her true self. She communicated all this without realizing, Paul reading only her inner expression, and he felt a pang of sadness for his sister; they were both trapped in a gilded cage.

“Paulie.” Mother, from across the room, snapped her fingers once. “You look well, dear, how are you feeling?”

He _could_ very easily get out of this by feigning a headache or weakness, but he hadn’t seen Jenny in weeks, and besides, it would mean more doctors bleeding him and stranger brews from Mrs. Davies, the cook. “Fine, Mother, fine, fine.” 

“Good. Now, dear, I know that you are rather stupid when it comes to these things, so I don’t expect you to actually mingle with many of our guests.”

“Thank you, Mother,” he said dryly. 

“Just see to it that Sir Isaacs isn’t left alone for long in the course of the evening – not that I imagine he would be, Jennifer, darling, as your groom is the toast of the town, but I will not have him abandoned after introductions.”

Sweet God, what torture, Paul thought. To be left alone at a party for all of few minutes. How _is_ one to recover from the trauma? “Right-o.”

“Don’t use slang, Paulie, it’s vulgar.” 

This time it was Paul’s turn to look heavenward for patience. “Yes, Mother.” He had never noticed the ornate cornice in this parlor before.

“Ah, our first guests.” Lady Bettany turned on a smile so falsely bright that Paul was tempted to shade his eyes as she drew Jenny to her side and floated across the room, dress – and etiquette – swishing loudly. 

“Remarkable creatures, women.”

Paul turned to see Sir Isaacs – well, Sir Isaacs’ deep red coat and shiny gold medals, and _then_ Sir Isaacs – long, wavy black hair meticulously trimmed and tamed into a ponytail, blue eyes of the sort that made Paul shiver nervously, and a smile that hinted at something feral. “Beg pardon?”

“Women. How they are able to dress like that, and _walk_ like that, and still be in a jovial mood.” Sir Isaacs shook his head. “I’ve seen soldiers baulk at less.”

How many soldiers had Sir Isaacs seen in a corset at an evening party, Paul wondered? “Quite.”

“And your sister… Remarkable woman.” Sir Isaacs' eyes held a twinkle. “She’s spirited, and I enjoy that.”

Paul, very clear of his meaning, blushed. “I am happy to hear you are well-suited.”

“Who could consider wedding such a beauty a hardship?” Sir Isaacs smile was… perhaps a little tight. “I have a great fondness for beautiful things.” The man put a hand on Paul’s elbow and drew him toward the window – which Paul allowed because, firstly, it was hot but the window afforded some air, and secondly, he’d never have the courage to rebuff someone in public, let alone someone who was family. 

“Oh?” he said, quickly losing the reins of the conversation. His thoughts scattered and landed on the heat and very slight pressure emanating from Sir Isaacs’ fingertips.

“Why, yes,” Sir Isaacs said in a dulcet tone. “Take your father’s racing horses, for instance.” 

Paul felt Sir Isaacs’ forefinger stroke across his elbow for a moment and a bolt of embarrassment shot through him. “Racing horses?” he repeated stupidly. Why should the touch of a man excite him so?

“Creatures of spirit, which have to be properly trained. You see, it’s difficult to tame a thing of beauty, Paul. Too much force, and you mar the perfection. Too little, and you lose all control. You must be firm,” he gripped Paul’s arm, “but gentle. It is a sort of _seduction_.”

“Sir Isaacs,” Paul sputtered, feeling as though he’d never draw breath again.

“Jason, please.” Jason smiled like a snake and let go of Paul reluctantly. “We are family after all.” And then the smile morphed into something that would have made Lucifer weep with envy. “I do think of you as my little brother now, you know. I shall perhaps take you under my wing....”

Paul swallowed and tried to think of an acceptable response. “Much obliged.”

Jason laughed. “But how delightful you are!” 

Paul was pleased at the compliment, but doubted he could trust Jason’s sincerity. 

“Jason!” Jenny called gently, forcing an end to the uncomfortable conversation, and so Jason bowed to him and then walked over to his bride, ready to meet the rest of the party-goers. 

Paul breathed a sigh of relief – thus concluded his duty for the evening, for surely Jason would not be left alone for a moment now – and made his way to the refreshments, eager for some punch. But the room was suddenly too small and filled with too many people, all of them boisterous and posturing for one another, and it was too much – he longed to hide in his tower and suffer weak tea. 

Instead, he wove his way through the clusters of people, past the kitchen foyer, and out onto the back grounds, turning a sharp right and then down the hill to the livery. Outside, the air was clean if not crisp, not yet thick with August, but still uncommonly warm for England this time of year. He was grateful for what little breeze the outdoors brought; he needed the sky to give him the illusion of freedom. 

A lantern was on in the stables, its orange glow inviting. He padded through the summer grasses, the scent of lavender and rain in the air, and quietly crept into the stable barn. The smell of horses and clean hay hit him in a rush, and he breathed in deeply. 

He loved horses but had not been allowed to ride much after the accident, due to his condition. Therefore he did not spend much time in the stables, for who would want to look upon a treasure they could not possess?

But there, in the last stall, was Byron: two-years-old, a huge, sleek, black stallion, son of Tigerlily, his father’s best racer. Byron was the elder Lord Bettany’s pride and joy – he dined on the most expensive feed, slept in a space twice as big as the others, and recently had his very own trainer, so Paul heard. He never once saw the man, but apparently he was a miracle worker who whipped Byron’s feisty tendencies into shape without so much as raising his voice. 

He went over to the stall and gripped the bars. The horse was not used to visitors and looked… agitated. “Good evening, Byron,” he whispered. “You are in your stall for the evening, but I have escaped mine.” He put his hand through the bars and reached to soothe the stallion’s forehead.

Anything but soothed, the horse let out a distressed whinny. Paul shifted his weight and said, “It’s all right.”

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, you bugger?” came a growl from directly behind him. 

Paul startled, which upset the horse further, but he couldn’t get his arm out from the bars, the sudden intrusion on his thoughts making him clumsy, and so he struggled – the horse began pacing back and forth – his own face became heated with shame and frustration, and then – rough hands on his arm, slipping him free and spinning him around. 

His breath caught. He had never seen a more brutal-looking man. Ever. Wild, brown hair curled just at the edge of his dirty forehead. He was… thick, meaty. Not a stitch on his chest – just coils and clumps of muscle. Simmering blue-green eyes. He looked like an outraged barbarian. He _glistened_ like a bloody hero straight out of Homer. His raw handsomeness was devastating.

“I said what the bloody hell do you think you’re on about?” barked this demi-god.

“I – I....”

“You - you – you almost put your dainty little hands on my lord’s horse, that's what.” The man turned to face the stall and made a shushing noise – a sort of chuck-chuck-chuck with his tongue, and the stallion instantly quieted. When the man turned back around, he kept his voice low, but he looked anything but truly calm. “Race horses are nervous creatures. They don’t like being groped. You startle them, and people get hurt.” The man raked him with his gaze. “Worse than that, even, the _horse_ could get hurt.”

Paul swallowed, finally finding his tongue. “I’m very sorry. It’s been years. I know so precious little about them....” 

“Any fool can see that.” The man again raked him with his eyes, stripping Paul back into childhood, it felt, and then crossed his arms, having taken Paul’s full measure. “Why don’t you go back to the party? I’m sure by now someone is missing you.”

“I’m sure they’re not,” Paul mumbled, chagrined. He couldn’t avoid looking down, but then couldn’t resist the urge to glance at those intense eyes again.

The man squinted. “Well, you can’t be staying here in Lord Bettany’s stables, lad. He’ll have me gelded if he knows one of his guests was prying about his horses.”

Paul smiled, not unkindly. “I think in this case, perhaps, he would make an exception.”

The man smirked. “Your kind are very comfortable with exceptions, I take it? And why would Lord Bettany not mind you trespassing, then?”

“Because I am Lord Bettany’s son,” Paul said gently, trying very hard not to be prim about it. “Lord Paul Bettany, pleased to have made your acquaintance.” 

A hesitation, and then the man’s manner changed. He didn’t grovel – far from it – or affect any sort of respect or attempt to garner pardon; he merely nodded. “I thought you were too sick to walk.”

Paul blinked. “Wherever did you hear such a thing?”

The man clammed up. So, servant gossip, one could assume. When was the last time Paul had been out of the house, really? 

“You’re clearly healthy to me.” It was said almost like an accusation.

Paul sighed. “Well, sometimes. Yes. I feel fine now, thank you…” He looked around the stables, anywhere but at the charismatic features of the man before him. “As you can see, I am quite fit to walk. I was ill as a child but… Now I simply spend most of my time in my rooms, composing.”

The man quirked an eyebrow. “Poetry?” This was a challenge to his masculinity if ever he heard one. 

“Music.”

“Ahh.” A slight smile – Paul would never forget it, the man’s entire face flashed satisfaction – and then the hardness returned. As if he had swallowed a stone and its grit now raced along his veins.

“I hadn’t meant to bother anything, but I found the party a bit too....” 

“Of course,” the man said. “You spend all day and night in quiet and then are thrown in with that lot. I’d come hide in the stables, too.”

Paul relaxed a bit, smiling shyly. For some reason the man’s eyes were fixed on his mouth and his courage faltered a bit. “Would you mind very much if I stayed a while longer? I can take a walk outside if you prefer, but it smells like rain.”

The man’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ve a keen nose! It won’t rain until the morning,” he said with certainty, “but seeing as how they’re your stables, or will be someday, you’re welcome to stay as you like.”

“Thank you.” Paul stood about awkwardly as the man hung tack on the wall. Calloused hands in contrast to the smooth wood and soft leather. “Why do you wear no shirt?” he blurted out. 

The man pinned him with a glare. “Mucking,” he answered simply. 

“Oh.” Paul played with the door-handle of an empty stall. “Why did the horse settle down when you ‘chuck-chucked’ it?”

The man was silent for a long time, deep in the well of his own thoughts, and Paul thought he wasn’t going to get an answer, but then, “He trusts me. Knows when I say it’s all right, I mean it.”

Paul was fascinated. Imagine that kind of… closeness. With an animal, no less. “Remarkable. You are the horse-master, then. That’s remarkable.”

The man shrugged. “I suppose.”

“It is! Here you have no way of truly communicating with him, but a few ‘chuck-chucks’ and all is once again right in his world? I have often wondered… if we are taught to fear or taught to trust.” He was babbling, and about esoteric things, too, like the nature of fear, which certainly would hold no interest for a horseman. 

The man glanced sideways at him – Paul could see a sharp intelligence there. A knife of thought gleaming in the darkness. “Instinct. On both accounts. It is _because_ I can’t talk to him – can’t lie or hide my true intentions behind pretty words – that he knows me. He trusts me because I’ve never given him reason not to.”

“ _I_ certainly have never given him reason to be afraid of me, for I’ve seen him but thrice since he was born!” Paul bristled.

The man smiled as if he were indulging a child. “Which might account for the fear, my lord. He hasn’t had time to _not_ talk to you.”

Paul sighed. He couldn’t tell if the man conceded the point or insisted upon his own. “What’s your name, then?”

The man returned to hanging up the tack. “Crowe. Russell Crowe.”

Paul licked his lips, trying very, very hard not to notice the way the muscles in Mr. Crowe’s back just _rippled_ with his every movement. “I wonder if perhaps...” Words flew away like a frightened bird, his insecurities brought fresh to mind.

Crowe turned around, waiting impatiently. “Are you waiting for me to prod you, my lord? Because I’m not in the habit of talking much. With humans.”

Paul smiled. “I wondered if perhaps you might teach me to ride again? To… gain Byron’s trust?”

Crowe frowned. And Paul was certain the man would mention his health and his parents and then he would have to explain that he was twenty-seven and in no need of such babying, but all Crowe said was, “Not Byron. Not at first. Beginners don’t start on champions – it’s degrading.” 

Degrading to the horse? Paul laughed. Out loud. For the first time in years. “Heaven forbid I offend Byron. Perhaps on Tigerlily then? She is older....”

Crowe shook his head again. “I’d never have taken you for a man of such ambition. Not on a racing horse. A mare. I could teach you in the ring on a mare, and we’ll see how you do.”

Ah! Not exactly adventurous, but something new, at least. Something beyond Paul's safe, plain four walls. Something… that would afford him more time with Mr. Crowe. “I should like that very much,” he said, pondering how the huskiness crept into his voice. 

Crowe stared at him for several tense moments. “Won’t they be missing you at the fine to-do?”

Blast. “Yes, I expect they must, by now. My sister, at any rate....” 

Crowe nodded and put away a pitchfork, hurtling it down into the hay like a trident, the last task left for the night. “I should be heading home, too.”

“You have family?” Paul asked, then ducked his head. “Sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”

Crowe shrugged. He was bitter and chafing but without embarrassment or boundaries, it seemed. “No. I’m given the woodhouse, in return for the work.”

Paul thought that strange, that a man of his age should have no family and no proper home – he must have met with some tragedy – but he didn’t wish to bring low his newfound… horse-master. “When is a good time to practice that doesn’t interfere with your duties?”

“Do you _really_ wish it? To ride, I mean?” Crowe jerked into his clothes like he was fighting them. 

“I love horses. It’s just that Mother – I’ve haven’t had much in the way of physical activity in many years. I’ve nothing else to do but write, and that river is dry at the moment... Understand, I’m not trying to win Ascot; I just would like to stay astride while the horse moves.”

Crowe laughed, richly, deeply, and Paul felt warm, as if he’d been drinking whisky. “Very well. We can manage that, at least. Come in the afternoons, if you like.”

He had to walk past the older man to get out – had to brush by his heat and dirt and rawness – a tingle of unique awareness clouding his veins and Paul knew that sleep tonight would be impossible. “I thank you.”

“What for?” Crowe asked earnestly. 

Paul glanced back at the bars. “Setting me free? And... agreeing to teach me.” 

A sharp grin. “You _do_ realize you will someday be lord of the manor, and you could order me to stand on my head, and I’d have little choice?”

What gall. “I would never...! You are not pressed. I assure you, I am not that sort of man, Mister Crowe, nor will I ever be,” Paul vehemently insisted. 

Crowe reached up and brushed his hair back from his forehead – the older man’s finger like a lick of lightning through Paul – and smiled. “No. I expect not.”

Paul shivered. 

“Are you cold?” Crowe moved closer, until Paul could all but taste his breath.

He looked down, blushing. “Warm.” Butterflies like flames in his stomach. His blush went hotter – he wanted this man closer.

“Ill? Or this foul summer heat?” Crowe reached behind him, Paul couldn’t tell why; he could only feel the strength and twist of Crowe’s arm over his shoulder, and then he shivered at the touch of a cool rag on the back of his neck. “How’s that then?”

Paul gasped. “Oh!” He lurched forward a little, instinctively gripping Crowe’s forearms. 

The man gently rubbed the back of his neck until Paul shook. “There. Better?”

He nodded, mutely. 

Long moments passed, their gazes locked, and suddenly he could hear it – a violin and a cello – the stables, the world, falling away – and then Crowe stepped back and it was like the scratch of a broken string. “Have a pleasant evening, my lord.”

“Yes,” Paul said absently. “Yes.” And then turned to leave lest he embarrass himself further. 

He returned to the house, his thoughts crowded with the horse-master’s scent and touch and the way his very _essence_ seemed to fill his head with music. Jason caught his eye across the room and nodded. Paul wasn’t in the mood. He could think of absolutely nothing but to tug on his mother’s sleeve and report that he had a headache and needed to lie down. Damn the doctors that would inevitably visit tomorrow. She waved him on his way; he kissed Jenny goodnight and begged off, and stumbled up the stairs to his room.

He took off his clothes slowly, dazed, until half-naked, he stood, the night breeze finally coming through the window. A change in the wind – coming south. He shivered, running a hand across the back of his neck, mimicking Crowe’s caress. 

There was no way of being sure, for it was so dark out now, but he was certain he _felt_ Russell Crowe’s eyes on him through the window – and he looked down to the stable lantern for a moment, thinking of his piece for the violin and cello, and then blew out his candle. 

Never write when first under the influence of love, he thought, then wondered why he would think such a ridiculous thing, as he sank into bed and let the night fold in around him. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Winning Creatures**

Young Lord Bettany was irritatingly endearing. And Russ had no desire to be endeared. Of anyone. He already had one boy far too attached to him – little Max Pirkis, his stable-hand – who suffered from a deplorable bout of hero-worship, tempered only by a reluctance to actually speak unless spoken to. It seemed Russ was always picking up the shy ones. A dog catcher who stood still while the strays wandered into his arms.

Lord Bettany was painfully shy.

How odd that a young man of such position and wealth should find himself so uncomfortable navigating the world. He had every advantage, and yet seemed totally unaware of it. Especially, he appeared, ignorant to the fact that he was attractive – fine, strawberry-blond hair, blue eyes, fair complexion – God, that blush – and a figure... that could stand to gain some weight… but was lithe and undeniably masculine. Bettany should be the twinkle in every lady’s eye. The _purse_ he would inherit alone should put a twinkle in every _mother’s_ eye, at least. 

So why was Lord Bettany calling on the horses in his stable, instead of wooing pretty ladies at the party?

Well, because women would hold no interest for him, judging by the looks Russ had received this evening. The fact that Bettany was oblivious to how desirable he was – to what he desired himself, even – was endearing. Endearing, in his… sort of innocence and… it had been too long since he’d experienced it himself, but even Russ could recognize an inherent kindness.

Lord Paul Bettany was kind. 

Quite the anomaly, considering the lad’s father. Christopher Bettany was ignorant of anything that did not consist of sports or gambling, could be brash if not given his way, and only respected Russell because Russell had the brass to be down-right surly when his methods were questioned. Both of them were brutes. Russell simply didn’t dress fine and pretend good breeding in company, was all. Russell didn’t expect or wish to be forgiven for his nature.

They had a very simple arrangement. Russell would see to it that Christopher Bettany had the finest racing horses in the county, so that he might brag over brandy and cigars with his peers, and Bettany saw to it that Russ was well-paid and otherwise left entirely alone. The woodhouse, and board in the lofts for Pirkis, had been his only stipulations, besides insisting on a salary that would make a nobleman that knew anything about equestrian work blush. Luckily Lord Christopher Bettany did not suffer from such experience. 

He had no real need for the money. In fact, he had a small stockpile for a rainy day. It was about respect, really. About making bastards like His Fat Lordship pay through the nose. He hated them, hated all of them, their rich laugh and soft hands, would gladly spit before their feet, if not for the fact that their money afforded them the most magnificent horses he’d seen in all his travels. 

Russ had sailed damned-near half the globe and he thought he knew every sort of man and beast. But then there was Paul Bettany. Shy, quiet, unsure, and yet… there was something special about him. Russ was very, very good at sensing potential, and young Bettany had it by the pound. 

“What’s his game?” Russ asked, turning his face up to the night sky. His eye caught the flicker of light in the room above – someone was in the spiral tower – speak of the devil, but there stood the lad, half-naked, running two fingers over the back of his neck. “Sweet Christ.” 

Utterly gorgeous. But, the master’s son. Just about the stupidest choice for an idle infatuation he could imagine. And Russell prided himself on being anything but a damned fool. 

He pulled his pipe from his pocket and set out for his hut, biting down, no stranger to making his way in the dark. The smoke was soothing, cleansing to him. Turning back once, he watched Paul purse his lips and extinguish the candle, and thought to himself that there stood a winning creature, lost, imprisoned in wealth and self-doubt. 

A prince locked high in a tower, in dire need of rescue.

~*~

Two days later, after a short burst of rain and then a sucking heat wave, when young Bettany had rested from his purported headache and much of Lady Bettany’s clucking had died down to murmured protests, Russ found himself in the breaking ring with Apple, the old brown mare. 

His pupil did not seem particularly eager to train on her, and Russ admired the spirit – ‘start life at the top of the ladder and people will knock you down to the right rung,’ his father had always said – but considering all the risks, Russ would not be moved. Not even by pleading blue eyes and batted blond lashes. 

“Mount from the left,” he said. It was a fine day, not yet hot, despite the thick clouds.

“Of course,” the lad mumbled. He took to the saddle with some ease – clearly the boy was out of practice, but hardly the victim of no education at all. 

“Reins wrapped around the right and laid over the left forearm, then.” 

Frowning, Paul did as instructed, and Apple’s head came up as she stood at attention. 

“Good,” Russ said. Then bit his tongue. He was not given to praise and would not start simply because young Bettany looked on in sheer delight at the smallest compliment. “Tuck into the stirrups.” 

“Right.” 

“Don’t move yet.” Russ kept a firm hand on the bridle. “Tell me, my lord, you’ve clearly ridden before?”

The boy nodded. “As a child, often. But then… it was stopped.”

“Why?” Russ asked bluntly. 

Paul grimaced. “It’s rather personal, Mister Crowe.”

Russ let some gravel and sea-grit into his voice. “In this ring, I am your master and you are my apprentice. There are no secrets between us here. It won’t work otherwise.”

Swallowing deeply, the boy managed to meet his gaze. “My older brother and I were riding on the moor when the horse took a fall. James was killed. The horse stomped on his bladder. My father shot the poor beast himself.”

Russ had to clench his jaw in order to resist ordering the boy off Apple immediately. It would not do to shelter a man from life, for death was eventually inevitable. “And you?”

“I took sick. A fever, exhaustion. I made it to my eight birthday. Mother has had me in a glass jar ever since, I’m afraid. But I am old enough now to keep my saddle I think, and if not, well, Jenny is married and the house has an heir in Sir Isaacs.” 

Russell blinked back surprise but pretended it was sunlight. “You won’t be falling on my watch, my lord.”

The _smile_ that statement earned him – soft and half-mouthed and sweet. “I’m certain of it. That’s why I chose you for a teacher, horse-master.”

Russ gave a curt nod and let go of the bridle. “Let’s see how you do then.” He kept the training rope in one loose hand, giving the lad just enough space to make a comfortable circle around the ring. And Bettany did fine, for the most part. After such a story, Russ expected him to be somewhat afraid, but no, the lad went into it quite determinedly. 

Apple didn’t need much instruction. One had only to place the reins on the side of her neck and she would obey. But Bettany followed procedure from memory – Russ could see most of his choices sprung from automation, not reasoning – and soon the lad had Apple at a fairly good pace. 

“Bring her down.” 

Apple slowed to a trot. “Why?”

Questioning him so early on? “Because your cant is off.”

Paul leaned over to look at Apple’s forelegs and Russ had to bite his cheek hard enough to taste blood. “Sit up straight, you git!” 

The boy squared and stopped Apple altogether. He seemed chagrined by Russell’s outburst but not offended by it. “She seems to be walking steadily to me.”

“ _She_ is perfectly fine. _Your_ cant, however, is off.” Russ reined them in with the training rope. 

“I’m… sorry?” Paul bit his lip. Which was bloody endearing. 

“I’m more worried about the fact that you would lean half-off your mount, at the moment.” Russ sighed. “It’s your hips.”

Paul looked at his lap. “Oh, really?”

“Yes, lad. Riding is all about the hips. Use your thighs. You thrust forward and up to drive the animal, and drop back as the horse takes a step. It’s a rhythm of give and take.” 

“Ah. Well, yes. I didn’t have much in the way of hips when I was a boy.” 

A quirk of the lips could not be helped. “I am certain there were many fine changes between then and now, but if you’d be so good as to lift your bum?”

And there was that _blush_ , hell’s own temptation, and Russ let go of the rope with a sigh and waved young Bettany around the circle. He stood dead-center and watched the boy attempt to ride, but it looked more like a bizarre death-struggle. 

“Providence,” he muttered. Paul’s tongue was stuck between his teeth, a glean of sweat on his forehead, and his hips… maddening. 

Nothing for it, then. Russ took huge strides and then jumped up on old Apple – who bore it with some affront, but soon he had her reins and the contest of wills was over – and then he sat snug up against the boy, who was slight enough to fit them both on the English saddle, thank goodness. 

“Like this,” Russ murmured into the lad’s ear, his hand pressing Bettany flush against him and then wrapping around his left hip.

“Oh!” Paul startled. Delicious.

Thrusting with his pelvis, using his powerful thighs, he drove Apple on with seamless grace, which was a joy, of course, but then he also had to fight the beginnings of an erection as the young lord continually bumped into him. He gripped down hard on that hip and forced Bettany to move only when he did, and soon, Apple was plodding along fine for her old bones. Russ even got her to do some diagonals before bringing them to a sudden stop. “Do you understand? Do you feel the difference?”

“Ye —” Bettany squeaked and then cleared his throat. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Good.” He slipped down and walked back to the center of the ring, doing his best to squash a smirk. “Keep practicing for today. Tomorrow you will learn more commands. Then we will find you a suitable mount, and you must take a good deal of time learning to read his tells.”

Paul had eagerly started practicing right away, but his eyes drifted always back to Russell. “Am I to play him a hand at poker?”

Cheeky brat. “Do you recall what you said to me in the stables? About communicating with Byron?”

Young Bettany slowed Apple and then did a diagonal trot – which was impressive, because Russ had not taught him that, he simply learned by watching – and then nodded. “Yes.”

“Listen carefully, my lord. Men and beasts alike betray their thoughts with even the slightest of unconscious movements.” 

“Remind me never to play cards with you, Mister Crowe.”

“Russell,” he said gruffly, unable to bear anymore formality than absolutely necessary. “And it would be piteous of me to rob you of your coin so easily, my lord.” He took back up the rope, not for any particular reason other than wanting a connection with the young man, and smiled. His face hurt from exercising muscles he’d long since left for merely frowns.

Paul smiled in return. It reached his eyes, even. “Must you ‘my lord’ me?”

“I must, unless you want your father to skin me alive.”

“And why should he need know what you call me?” Paul asked in a hush. 

Ah. Their first shared secret, then? “Paulie, your family says?”

Paul winced and pulled Apple up short. He dismounted and handed the reins to Russell. “Call me that again and I shall never forgive you. Paul, please, just plain Paul is good enough for me.” And then he cocked his head and gave a shy smile that had every hair on Russell’s body standing at attention. 

“Paul.”

“Russell.” He ran his fair hand down Apple’s side, over and over, in a most hypnotizing manner.

“Did I say you may stop practicing?” Russ raised one eyebrow.

“Indeed you didn’t, but you shall have to forebear my impudence, for I must answer a higher call.” And now the smile was cocky, conspiratorial, as Paul nodded to the house. 

“Your muse?”

“Tea.” Paul laughed. 

The urge to ruffle the man’s hair, as he did whenever Pirkis was being cheeky… but he merely stroked Apple’s nose and nodded. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes, Russell, thank you.” The way his name rolled, breathy and intimate, off Paul’s tongue. Damnation. He could do nothing but watch the young man walk slowly up to the house. 

He wandered back to the stables in a bit of a haze, feeding time according to the church bells, but stopped short when he saw Pirkis kneeling on the floor, counting out pennies. 

“Hullo, hullo,” he said softly, very certain not to sneak up on the child, and walked over to him. “And what would this be?”

“Savings,” the boy said simply. “I’ve almost got two pounds.”

Russ’s lips quirked. “A rich man. What do you intend to do with all this money? Buy a title? Vacation to the Indies?”

Pirkis shook his wee head, the shocking, straw-colored hair displaced. “You know.”

He sighed, because he did know. The boy was nutters for books. Books on anything – bird species, physics, philosophy, even one on dentistry of all things. One day the little bugger came back from town with a book on mathematics – written in Greek – and asked plainly if Russ might teach him the funny letters, as if Russ had any clue. It was _odd_ , really. But it never occurred to Russ to mind. Pirkis was bright, quick, and quiet. What’s more, he was obedient. He could ask no better of any man. If the boy wanted to be a scholar in between shodding shoes and mucking stalls, all the better. 

“Did you finish your chores?”

“I need some carrots from Cook,” Max said, putting his money back in his tea tin, “and the maize and grains are all ready.”

Russ felt indulgent. “Hurry on then, and you may have the afternoon off.”

Max’s head shot up. The child liked time on his own, he was singular that way, but he also suffered some anxiety when away from Russell. To be expected, considering. “Might I go swimming?”

“Not in the pond. The family is not on holiday yet.” He went over and picked up a feed bag. “You shall have to go to the river, if you don’t mind the walk.”

“Might you come with me?”

“I cannot.” 

A pause, while Pirkis weighed the odds. Summer and boyhood won out, though Russell suspected the lad would return well before dark. “What did the master’s son want, today?”

A quick glance – oh dear, his boy was jealous. “He wishes to ride again.”

“He cannot ride?” Max giggled. 

“His health.” Russ shrugged. There was nothing wrong with young Bettany that he could see. 

“But why you?” 

“Do you know of any other horse-masters on the grounds?” Russell began latching bags of food onto the stable doors, petting each prize as they came to lunch. 

“You are not exactly friendly, sir.” Max smiled. 

Russ laughed. “No. But he is; friendly enough for both of us. He is bored. All rich men are easily bored. He will tire of it soon enough, I expect.”

“If I ever had so much free time, I should attend university.”

“He did.” Russell had asked the groomsmen. His new pupil had no less than four degrees – music, history, philosophy, and the classics. What a man was to do with all that learning Russ had no idea. Especially since he never seemed to leave the house. “He attended several times.”

“Yes, well, I was talking about _me_. I should like to become a great thinker. Though perhaps I should be content to extend myself to the Navy.”

“The British armada is nothing like what it was, lad. There’d be little glory in rowing about the ocean today, I fear.”

“I wish to be an officer. I am saving.”

An officer? “Your two pounds are better put toward a commission, then? They shall make you officer of the poop deck and captain of swabbing.” He fed an apple to Apple – her favorite thing, of course.

Pirkis took everything sincerely. “Go ahead and mock me, but if I put my mind to it, I shall hold rank. The military is the only place to advance oneself.” Max had followed him, his tiny hand crept into Russell’s pocket to pull out some dried figs – stolen, of course, from the kitchen. “And since you were a sailor, I think I should like it too.”

“You’ve scalding ambition, then? To what? Fight tremendous battles on the high seas? And then? Marry a mermaid, perhaps?” He petted the boy’s head as the young lad ate his figs. 

“Hm. I’ve given no thought to marriage.”

“Well, you’re not yet twelve, so I’m certain there’s still some time left.” He plucked the last fig out of the boy’s hand and popped it in his mouth. Sugared. Mmm.

“You do not take me seriously, sir.”

“Never, sir. The day little boys are taken seriously is the day they become men, and I should see that day come much later, little sparrow.”

“Perhaps piracy is the only route left to me,” Max said then, untucking and re-rolling Russell’s shirt sleeves. Russ let him do this – let him shine boots, scrub dishes, serve him like a squire, because whatever embarrassment Russell suffered for this was nothing next to the comfort these rituals provided Max.

“It does seem the best option. Carrots, Pirkis, and then a swim.”

The lad wrinkled his nose; the translation of this was reluctance.

“What is it now?”

“The cook, sir. She’s taken to kissing me on the cheek all the time.” 

“God forbid,” Russ said dryly, bending down to plant a smacking raspberry on the boy’s smooth cheek. 

Pirkis recoiled only slightly, then smiled. “Sir!” He rubbed his cheek, dirtying it worse than before.

Russ turned him around and swatted his bum, pushing him forward. “Go and get to the river then, do be sure not to drown, but think kindly on your master, who spoils you.”

“Yes, sir,” Pirkis called back, already running out the stable doors. 

So, carrots. To the kitchen. Mrs. Davies was exceptionally kind in turning a blind eye whenever he entered and so he was able to swipe things he otherwise couldn’t find without a trip to town – and in the town there were _people_ and he preferred to spend little time with those.

The kitchen was like a well-oiled machine, pots bubbling, meat roasting, ovens blazing – even in this dreadful summer heat – and a cornucopia of fruits and vegetables stacked on the preparation table. The Bettanys enjoyed elaborate meals while the working class of England begged for bread. 

“Good day, Mrs. Davies,” he said quickly. “Might I have the horses’ carrots?”

Busy, she pointed to the table without looking up. Russ went over, inspecting them each, and started putting some in a wicker basket, when he heard it. Slow and sweet – like a low, human groan. Someone was playing music. It drifted down through the vents into the kitchen like the whisper of a lover – he could just make it out over the noise of the cooking – and it was a siren call. 

He dropped the carrots without sparing an glance and drifted over to the vent – keening. The servants’ stairs were but a few steps – Mrs. Davies paid no mind – so he tip-toed up, up, up to the second floor where the family’s rooms were, and then, certain no one was watching, took the spiral stair all the way to the third floor. 

It was coming from the tower room. Lord Bettany’s room. He would be late for tea. But who cared, when such amazing sounds were to be had? It was glorious, haunting, and thick with emotion – passive and calm and then suddenly sharp and aggressive. He found his mouth open, his breath sucked from him, as he stood at the top of the stairs and listened. 

However many minutes passed he could not tell, but eventually Bettany stopped, and he could hear the scratch of quill on parchment… Paul’s soft swears while he talked to himself. Russ had half a mind to burst through the doors and blurt out demands for an encore, that he should like to learn the piece and play together, but even he hadn’t the brass to breach such decorum. He’d be sacked and once the savings ran out, he and Pirkis would be back on the streets. Not prepared for that yet, Russ had been on his best behavior since acquiring this position. 

It appeared there would be no more cello for a while, Paul was busy scratching away on paper, and the horses would be wanting their carrots, so he slipped back down to the kitchen and saw to that. Pirkis had taken good care of the stables and livery that morning, there was no reason to linger. He filled the bins and made preparations for the following day, ate a quick lunch of bread, cheese, and cheap ale, and then, satisfied enough time had passed since eating, he took Byron out of his stall.

“Are you ready to chase the wind, my fine one?” he whispered. 

Once suitably tacked, he mounted and burst out of the stables, reckless and heady, jumping the gate and they were off – parallel to the woods and across the stretch of lonely moor. The hills were pregnant with full heather which billowed as they galloped past, squares of green and purple earth racing by, and Russ was one with the animal then, of one mind, one breath, racing fast until Mercury himself would be jealous. 

It would have been easy to keep going, to wear Byron out, but he knew better. He stopped them by a lone willow tree, not even bothering to tie the horse, for they had trust between them, and sat down to rest. More clouds. The elusive rain would come soon. Perhaps cool them all off. 

From here he could just see the grey stone of the manor, disappearing into grey clouds. The world was a mist of bleakness. There was a loneliness like he’d not known before. He finally had someone with whom he wanted to spend time, talk to, touch – and yet it was quite impossible. So he was excited to have the young lord’s attention, even knowing it would not last, excited further to have heard the talent behind his music, even knowing it was not his right – but the strange, skin-crawl feeling of being separated from the lad. It worried him. 

Russ was an independent man and always would be. It was a hard thing to swallow, this sudden and new need to stare into a pair of blue eyes, at a pink mouth, look on long, white fingers. His pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, licking the salt of his skin, and wondered what it would be like to kiss the young lord. To bend the boy back and plunder his mouth? Or to shyly press lips together and share breath? He’d do both, if he had his way. 

Byron’s tail twitched – a storm coming and he was anxious for his stall. “Very well, my bonny one.” So he took the reins, mounted, and turned back to the manor. 

He spent the rest of the day in his hut with one of Pirkis’s books, safely out of the drizzle and comfortably alone. Bettany’s music was with him always, like a shadow on the edge of his thoughts, but it was bearable. Night fell, the book too interesting to bother with dinner, and who knew how many hours passed when he’d heard a tentative knock on his door.

“Max? Come in, lad.”

The door opened but it was not Max at all. It was young Lord Bettany. “Forgive my intrusion.”

Russell was off his cot in a flash, frowning, foreboding in his surprise. “You’re all wet,” he said stupidly.

“Yes, sorry. I do apologize. I was walking… I was taking a walk, and the rain got worse...” The young man shivered.

“Come in!” Russ ordered gruffly. Walking in the rain, no wonder the idiot was constantly ill. “Sit by the fire.” He offered his only seat – a hand-carved wooden stool, which Bettany took gratefully.

“Thank you. I am sorry to drop in suddenly, but I saw this place, and thought it might be warm and dry for a sp-spell,” Paul stuttered, his entire body shaking a bit. “It is raining rather hard.”

“You do realize you live in _England_ , my lord?” Russ said dryly, yanking his thick blanket off the bed and wrapping it around the lad. 

“I shall spoil it.” Paul looked endearingly troubled.

“You shall get sick without it, and I shall be blamed for your untimely death, and I think avoiding that fate worth the price of a soppy blanket. And when are you going to learn better manners than to argue with a man in his own home?”

Paul gave him that shy smile and looked around. “You live here?”

He’d never been one to feel ashamed. Of anything. But the small room with a dirt floor, bare walls, one cot, one stove, one table, one stool – two shelves and space for nothing else. Well, he felt poor. “I sleep here.”

“It’s charming,” Paul said, blowing on his fingers to get warm. 

Russ added firewood to the stove and then stood awkwardly across from Bettany. “A walk, you say?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “I’m stuck. On the music, you see. It isn’t coming.”

“It sounded excellent to me,” Russ said without thinking, and then froze when Bettany peered at him.

“And how could you know?”

He swallowed. This is why he didn’t talk to people – he had no skill for anything other than direct honesty. “Your manor is vast, my lord, but the vents carry sound.”

Paul smiled. “Paul, please. And I am glad you heard it, then. You must give me some of your unchecked criticism.”

Russell shrugged. “I can think on nothing to improve, from what little I heard.”

That delicate nose wrinkled in disgust. “Come now. It was self-indulgent and clunky. No one will ever request it or remember my name.”

Russ folded his arms. “I would.” The boy shivered again and he reached out, instinctively, running his hands up and down Paul’s arms. Outside, the wind howled. 

“Do you enjoy music, Russell?”

He stepped back. “I fiddle.”

And there it was, the smile that could stop the ticking of a clock. “Truly? Have you an instrument here? Might I see?”

Russ went over to the bed, pulled out the case, and opened it. No idea why, he just did whatever would make his guest happy and distract himself from staring at how the boy looked when deliciously wet. He brought the fiddle out and laid it gently into Bettany’s waiting hands. 

“Magnificent! Where did you ever get it?” Long, white fingers stroked over the body of the violin.

“Florence,” he said simply. 

The boy searched his face. “You’ve traveled, then.”

“Extensively.” He shrugged.

“But how ever could you afford —” Paul bit his lip and looked down. Russ smiled and took the instrument from him. 

“I’m a water gypsy, sir, and you will find I’ve traveled the world. I spend my money wisely.”

“And yet you prefer managing my father’s racehorses and living in a wood hut?” Paul frowned.

He shrugged again. “A simple life suits me. I am my own master.”

“Mm. It almost sounds romantic.” Shivering again, the boy wrapped up tighter in his blanket. “Would you play for me?”

He cocked his head to the side, considering, then took up the bow. A deep breath, he tuned for a moment, and then – the same melody he’d heard from Bettany’s staircase, as best as he could remember it, slow and deadly. He closed his eyes and wrung out as much as he could. 

Paul had come to his feet and was now standing right in front of him, close enough that he couldn’t unfold his arms without hitting him, those blue eyes bright and eager. “Remarkable,” the younger man whispered.

Russ put the instrument back in its case and turned, but Bettany had not given him an inch more room. “If you say.”

“You play by ear. And very well. I am…” Paul ran a hand down his arm, gripping his forearm tightly, desperate for connection. “I am honored.”

He covered the boy’s fingers and frowned. “You’re freezing!” Those clothes were soaked – the lad must have been wandering around the woods for some time.

Paul shivered as Russ ran his hands over him, stepping closer, heat in his pale eyes and a chill on his pale skin. “I shall be all right,” he whispered, moving completely into Russell’s space, his chin over Russ’s shoulder, chests almost touching. Like he was drawn to Russ’s body heat.

“You’ll be bloody sick,” he replied gruffly, pulling the fine shirt out of Paul’s trousers. “Out of these clothes right now.”

Paul took in a sharp breath as Russell stripped him – shirt, trousers, he dared not touch those breeches, boots and stockings – Christ, the boy was too thin. “Into bed.”

Dazed, the younger man obeyed, lying on his back, a shaking forearm draped across his forehead. Russ suspected the blush in his cheeks had nothing to do with the fire in the stove. He went and covered Paul with the blanket. “How can you be this cold in such a hot summer?” he muttered.

“I was born to be troublesome, it seems. Sit by me?” Big, wide eyes and pale skin like the marbled columns of city hall and how could Russ refuse even such a blatantly taboo request? 

He sat on the end of the bed and watched Paul’s lips move as he spoke. “I saw you today. Riding on the moor. You were flying. To think, so fast, a man of your great size.”

Russ smirked. “Sir, are you telling me I need to drop some stone?”

Paul’s hand stroked down his ribs and it was Russ’s turn to shiver. “Don’t change one lock of hair.” This, with fervor. “I meant only that you are so....”

“I know what you meant,” Russ said, trapping Paul’s hand on him. “Pirkis is his jockey, when your father races him. The boy weighs nor than a feather.”

“Pirkis?” Paul asked.

God, he wanted to kiss that adorable little frown. “My boy.” 

“Oh.” Paul shivered again.

“Are you getting warm?”

“Yes, many thanks."

Russ rose one eyebrow and fixed the lad with a look.

Paul cracked almost instantly. “No, not really. I hope I haven’t taken ill. Mother will be very upset – she wants to go to Brighton at the end of the week.”

Russ soothed the worry from Paul’s forehead and, God help him, his hand petted the boy’s hair, his thumb stroked over that high cheek, and ghosted down his neck. “Rest,” he whispered. “Rest here for the storm. It won’t last forever.” 

Paul’s mouth hung open and he _leaned_ up into Russell’s touch. If ever there was a more wanton-looking creature at that moment… No, he was wrong – Paul pressed the back of Russ’s hand into a kiss and _that_ was his undoing.

“Rest,” he whispered harshly. “Don’t play with fire.”

“But I’m cold,” Bettany murmured, turning his hand over, pressing lips to his wrist without thought, without caring – this was reflex, he realized, and Russ was done for.

He leaned over and hovered but an inch from the boy’s mouth. “I can be a very dangerous man, my lord.”

Trembling hands rested lightly on his back. “Maybe I want some danger.” This with wonder, as if the young man had never considered desire until that moment.

So he was to be a nobleman’s plaything then? Not that he could work up enough indignation at the moment to refuse. Instead, he pounced – stealing Paul’s mouth up in a fierce kiss, gnashing almost, sucking the boy’s lower lip into his mouth and drawing out a wonderful moan. “Don’t say that I didn’t warn you.”

Paul’s hands tightened on his shirt and he forced himself to ease up, kiss gently, lightly, brush lips, nibble, and then he coaxed the lad’s mouth open and delved deep, swiping his tongue. The lad shook and breathed harshly, arching up to let him eat at that pink mouth, and then he couldn’t take it, he moved, further onto the bed, and Paul pulled him closer – he had not thought to chance anything more than lying side by side, but the boy tugged him on top – and then the kisses turned to serious, sweet poison.

Those long fingers tangled in his hair and he was kissing the lord, kissing and kissing him, biting and sucking at his neck, wild, tasting, tasting the salt and the rain, and Paul molded around him, those long legs spreading out, giving him purchase, and then folding around him, and all he could do was rock forward, grind his swollen cock against the boy.

“God, yes,” Paul cried, his hands pressing the small of Russ’s back down rhythmically, demanding he hump into the cradle of the boy’s hips. “Mm, Russ….”

He bit a pale shoulder, counted the freckles for an insane moment and then swiveled his hips, earning a keening groan, and suddenly Paul was thrusting against him, hands everywhere, and it was unheard of, ridiculous to do this, to risk this, but the boy was sucking on his earlobe and moaning so prettily and Russ was a disciplined man but not a saint.

Snaking a hand between them, he cupped Paul’s hardness through his breeches. It was long and slender and slick, and he wanted it in his mouth desperately, but there wouldn’t be time for that on this occasion. And then he felt Paul’s hands quest down his back, sneak into his trousers, and smooth across the swell of his ass. Paul squeezed, over and over, forcing him to thrust harder, and he moaned his approval, bearing down. 

Russ freed the buttons of his trousers and pushed them down over his hips without care, and Paul was there, helping him, pulling the material away until he was free. 

“Sweet heavens,” the boy gasped, looking at his manhood. 

Swollen and angry red, and yes, rather large. It must be intimidating to the lad – for clearly he was a virgin. “I want you,” Russ explained simply, guiding Paul’s hand to him. “Touch it.”

Tentative strokes that caused him to roll his eyes back in his head. “Yes, like that...” And he was thrusting into the lord’s hand, breathing harshly against Bettany’s blushing neck. Things had heated quite considerably – a furnace churning beneath his skin. “Mm, faster.”

Paul obliged, jerking his cock, his foreskin rubbing deliciously over the head and soon he would come, so he stopped the lad with a tender kiss. “Spread your legs for me.”

“Anything,” Paul whispered, settling back. So sweet. The boy was so sweet and eager. 

Lowering himself once again, he slid their cocks roughly against one another, thrusting over him, mimicking fucking, his hips snapping in an accelerating rhythm, forcing little panting whimpers from Paul. “Do you want me, Paul?”

“Ye—yes.”

“Do you want me to suck your cock? Fuck you? Do you want me to mount you? Take you on the floor like a dog? Up against a tree in your father’s woods? Do you want my stiff prick pounding you, my _lord_?” he grunted, nailing the lad.

“Augh... augh!” Paul came at the onslaught of words, his seed shooting out quickly, slicking their bellies. Russ stopped and quirked a brow.

He bent in half and licked at Paul’s belly, enjoying the sated groan, and then fisted his cock and jerked himself over the boy. Staring, Paul was staring at him, their eyes locked, and then Paul leaned up and kissed him, sweetly, and urged him to lie down. 

Unhappy to stop his ministrations, Russ murmured a protest but let the lord roll him over on his back. And then? Then the lad scooted down and sent the tip of his tongue over Russ’s agonized cock – laving it. Blue eyes, Jesus Christ, those eyes. 

“You must teach me,” Paul said, “what pleases you.” And then he licked and kissed Russ’s length until he couldn’t stand it.

“Open your mouth, open your mouth,” Russ begged, and then he thrust into that cavern of heat and it didn’t take long. Paul let him do whatever he wished – he was careful not to gag the boy, not to lose control – and finally he pulled Paul over him, so that he was sitting in Russ’s lap, and he thrust up. Paul rode him then, let him grind up, again and again, and he came, spilling on the breeches, staining the lord’s crotch. “Ah!”

He fell back to the bed, Paul collapsing on top of him, both of them gritty with sweat and come. His hands tangled into the lord’s hair and held him close to his chest. Panting. Drumming. Thrumming. Russ was not one for talking, and right now, neither of them had to. Paul pressed little close-mouthed kisses to his chest, nuzzling, and then closed his eyes and was totally still. 

The rain outside had turned fat and gentle. He covered them with what blanket he could reach and stared at the ceiling, thinking of the stupid thing they’d just done, unable to regret it, as he could feel the drum of Paul’s heartbeat against his ribcage. 

He awoke to Paul kissing his cheek. The lad was fully dressed and standing over his bed. “I’m sorry. If I’m missed they’ll be worried sick. I must go back.”

Russ nodded. “Are you feeling well?” It was unlike him to care, but the damned fool was endearing, and therefore Russ was doomed. 

“Very.” The boy leaned down again and kissed him fully, then buttoned up the last of his shirt and went for the door. “Tomorrow.”

And just like that, the heir to the entire manor walked out of his woodhouse. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Porcelain Cupped Poison**

All throughout breakfast Paul could think of nothing but Russell and what they had done. The way Russ tasted, ate at his lips, the heavy prick rubbing his own, how the older man moaned and grunted against his neck. He’d never known such indelicate lust. Russ was like a wild animal held in tenuous check. Paul stroked two fingers along his pulse – it was racing, naturally. 

“You look a little flushed, dear,” Mother said.

“It’s the heat.” Paul looked down into his porcelain teacup. Damned weak tea. His family treated him like fine-boned china, like he might break from a severe look. Russ’s hands on him were demanding – a man’s hands, working hands – and Paul felt like he’d been marked with palm prints; made real.

Jenny put the back of her hand to his forehead. “You seem all right,” she said kindly. “I think you should be well enough to come to Brighton.”

Mother of God, no. Not Brighton. Not with his family. An endless parade of fashions and parties and excursions to the beach in those ridiculous bathing suit and all he wanted was to go back to the woodhouse. Back to Russell, whose world was bright color and subtle exclamation marks of emotion. “Perhaps I should stay behind.”

Mother eyed him sharply. “We’ve been planning this for weeks, Paulie. We always go this time of year.”

Paul squirmed. “Yes, Mother, but I thought perhaps I’d have my own holiday, here. It would give me a chance to work on my music, and you a chance to not have to trouble about me.”

“Brighton has many relaxing spas.” Mother reclined back in her chair as if she herself was nothing more than a fine dress laid out for an evening at the opera.

Paul pleaded with his eyes at his sister. Spare me this, he thought.

“But the sun, Mother,” she said, catching on instantly. “And the heat. And the water so full of people... Perhaps Paul would be better off resting here where Mister Edgar can keep an eye on him.”

Paul gave her the most angelic expression of gratitude he could muster before turning to Mother. “I will be very good. I only want to lie down.” _Under Russell._

She considered it a moment, and then nodded. “Very well. We leave in two days. Your father will not be pleased.” This she added in a slippery attempt at guilt.

“I imagine father will hardly notice,” Paul muttered to his cup. 

“Don’t mumble, it’s vulgar.”

“Yes, Mother.” He caught Jenny’s eye as he cut his soldiers into manageable strips, and they both had to bite back a smile. Paul and Jenny rather liked vulgarity – vulgar meaning ‘of the common people’ in this sense. While Jennifer had been comfortable in fancy clothes, he had not. They both were intelligent, but in different ways. She preferred to play at political games amongst crowds and speeches and social thinkers, while he enjoyed long solitary walks, the dusky library of Cambridge, chamber music. Still, when it came to this matter – the war of class – they were allies against Mother and Father.

“Mother,” Jenny started, deftly change the subject, “I wonder if you should like to go shopping with me today. I’ll need a new suit and things for the trip.”

“Did we not just recently go shopping for your honeymoon?”

“But, Mother, I want to look nice for Jason and he’s seen me in all of those things….”

Jennifer, God bless her, kept their mother occupied with talk of shopping and marriage for the next several minutes, giving Paul enough time to drift back into the warm embrace of strong, muscular arms, feel the damp threads of Russ’s thick hair between his fingers, remember each sigh and touch as the older man thrust between his legs. His mind chased the memory of their night together like a hound’s nose to the ground, zigging, zagging, trailing after hot flashes of sex.

Good God. He’d lost his virginity last night. To the horse-master.

Pressing a hand to his forehead he leaned over the table. 

“Are you _quite_ sure you don’t need a doctor?” Mother asked. 

“I’m fine, thank you, fine.” He straightened. If she were to really think him ill, she’d cancel Brighton and it would be that much harder to get to see Russell then. “It’s just, this is such unusual heat, don’t you think? I am glad I shall not go to the beach.”

Mother nodded. “You’re fairer than anyone else in the family. Perhaps you are right to stay. You haven’t the constitution for travel anyway.”

Only the spirit for it, he wanted to argue. Paul wanted to see the world – he envied Russell his freedom and experience; envied Jenny her honeymoon trip – but best not to do much of anything but agree right now. “Yes, Mother. I am sorry.”

She sighed. “I had hoped you might meet a few ladies while there....”

Paul shrugged and then froze – habits from the horse-master would surely not sit well at this particular table. “I am certain I would do nothing to impress them in my bathing suit.” Jenny found it funny. Mother did not. 

“You’d look handsome enough if you’d eat more, do some light exercise.” Mother’s silver eyebrow lifted critically.

“I have been walking.” Paul decided to let his family happen upon the knowledge of his riding again if and when they should ever bother to look out on the back grounds. Since they rarely did, he never saw fit to mention it.

“That’s good, dear.” Satisfied, Mother stood up and snapped her fingers at the lady’s maid, who scurried to fetch her hat and gloves. “I am to call on Duchess Close and Dame Dench today. Jenny?”

“I think I shall see if Jason would like to go for a ride.” Jenny smiled and poured herself some coffee. “Paul?”

Paul opened his mouth when Mother interrupted, “He can’t have that, think of his kidneys!” 

Jenny blinked, putting the pot down. “I meant, what was he to do today?” she recovered quickly.

“Compose,” he mumbled, slumping back in his chair.

“Slouching,” Mother said and he straightened again. “Very well. I’m off.” And with a whirl of long petticoat, she was out of sight.

“Bleeding Christ,” Paul muttered, grabbing up the coffee pot and pouring it into his empty cup. “Thanks, Jenny.”

She laughed. “I figured I owed you for the party. But then you disappeared. What was all that about, big brother?”

When she had that mischievous look about her, her eyes took on a quality like when the jewelers put bright amethysts out in the sun windows of their shops. “If you must know, your husband gave me a bit of a shock.”

Jenny frowned. “He can be foreboding sometimes, but once you get to know him, you’ll find he’s not cold at all.”

“Rather, he is a tad overly affectionate, I find.” The coffee tasted good – dark and hot and bitter – like Russell.

“Perhaps he was just anxious to make a friend in you, as you are my only brother.” The ‘left alive’ part of her sentence hung in space for some tense moments. “Do you find fault with him?”

Paul studied her. “I am sure he is the best of all men. I am just not used to people, you know.”

She got up and kissed his cheek. “I think you are jealous I have a husband.” Jenny started clearing the plates, as was her habit. English breakfast always meant no servants, but Jenny went above and beyond the call.

“Oh yes. I’m miserable with envy; I’ve always wanted a husband of my own.”

“Paul!” Jenny doubled over with laughter. Then she straightened, suddenly serious. “Is there something you’d like to tell me? You know you can trust my confidence. Have you fallen in love with one of the scullery maids and that’s why you don’t want to go to Brighton?” She cracked a grin.

Far too close to the heart, Paul thought, he would have to take extra care with Jenny. He reached out, kissed the back of her hand. “You are a very dear sister. Except in times like these. Do have a care about making assumptions.” He swatted at her.

“My brother’s wisdom always guides me. I will tell you my secret if you tell me yours?”

His lips quirked. “Oh? A secret, have you? Do tell!” He leaned forward in conspiratorial fervor. 

Jenny placed her hands on her stomach and bit her lip. “I need new clothes because… I’m going… it’s for the baby.” She blushed. 

“The baby,” he breathed. “Jenny! So soon?”

Ducking her head, she nodded. “On honeymoon. I haven’t told yet – I will at Brighton when I’m really sure….”

“Well,” he said, both happy and… somewhat lonely, “well, that is good news, dearest. Congratulations!” He hugged her, kissed her temple. 

“And now your secret?” she asked, stepping back.

“Oh,” he said casually, “I’m having a torrid love affair with the horse-master.”

She laughed outrageously, disbelieving, and hurried out the door to find her groom, leaving Paul alone with his thoughts. His very lusty, Russell-filled thoughts. 

After breakfast he washed from the basin and nearly had an aneurism when Mr. Edgar came in to bring him some freshly-pressed clothes. It was ridiculous to cling to a robe in the summer, but Paul didn’t want him seeing Russ’s teeth marks or nail scratches. “Thank you, Mister Edgar. I’m going to write for a while and then go out in the afternoon.”

“Very good, Master.” Mr. Edgar bowed, wobbling a bit. Paul came over and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you well?”

“Yes, sir. My arthritis acts up when it rains, is all. Last night had me stiff.”

“Take today off.”

Mr. Edgar’s smile slipped. “That’s kind of you, sir, but only your father could do that. And as the family is soon to Brighton, there’s much to be done. It won’t be of any good to have the servants resent me lazing about.”

Paul helped Mr. Edgar to the door. “You are the hardest working man I’ve ever met. Your staff respects you.” He gave Mr. Edgar his clothes from yesterday, slightly ashamed of their horridly wrinkled (and stained) state. “When I am lord, I shall see to it you advise the staff but do nothing laborious.”

Mr. Edgar pushed his spectacles further up his patrician nose and blinked. “When you are lord, sir, I am sure your staff will rob you blind and all the while you will thank them for it. You’ve not the discipline or sternness for servants, if I may trespass my bounds to say so, Master.”

Paul smiled. “You sound like my father. Except for the yelling and thumping of his cane.”

Mr. Edgar shook his head. “I shall have to live forever to see that you aren’t cheated.”

“An excellent plan on all accounts, then.” He patted the man’s fragile shoulder and watched him walk through the door.

Then to the cello, to the song that was hiding in the flick of his wrists, in the hollow of his throat, in his very hipbones, since Russell had explored him with hungry fingertips. He played as if he were making love to his instrument, languorous and needy, arm wrapping around the sculpted neck, bow sliding back and forth across the belly as Russell had rubbed and slid against him. 

He bit his lip and played, eyes clothed, sweat dropping down the back of his neck, tears, unshed, at the points of his eyes. Paul was intoxicated… and thirsty, wanting to become even more drunk.

When it was out of him, when he had played until he was sober, he jotted down the notes as quickly as possible, not even bothering with sheet music, he’d remember the tempo later, he dashed it off, afraid to lose it, even one note, snatching at the memories of the cello and the horse-master like a child trying to grasp at wisps of pipe-smoke. 

His stomach growled loudly and he realized midday had come and gone. Putting his things gingerly down on the bed, he shrugged out of his meditation and clamored down the stairs to the kitchen. Mrs. Davies was cooking rabbit and it smelled delicious.

“Have you any to spare, Mrs. Davies?” he called out, landing with a little bob at the end of the steps. There, across the kitchen, was Russell, putting lettuce and carrots in wicker baskets while the kitchen staff busied with lunch. “Oh.”

Mrs. Davies smiled at him. “I’ve some cold meat and fruits, Master Paul,” she said happily. His eyes were locked with Russell’s.

“Oh. Yes, cheers.” Russell broke his gaze and looked down into the basket and Paul couldn’t bear the awkward silence. “Mister Crowe?”

“My lord?” Soft and deep rumbling like a distant earthquake, as Paul watched Russell drag his eyes up again.

“Have you many duties this afternoon?”

Russell opened his mouth, then closed it against his initial reply, instead leaning slightly over the basket and looking at him pointedly. “I attend my lord’s pleasure.”

At first Paul thought that meant his father, but Russ’s gaze corrected him and he could do little more than blush stupidly. “I thought perhaps of riding to the pasture today. Taking a picnic lunch.”

“Riding, sir?” Mrs. Davies said suddenly, so mindless with worry that she forgot her bounds. 

Paul was stunned to rediscover there were others still in the room and so Russell made his reply. “We ride together, Mrs. Davies. That way I am sure he will not fall off.” A heated look at him, and Paul bit his tongue against the humiliation of such news. 

“His Lordship will not like it, Master,” she warned. 

Paul smiled shyly, could see the immediate effect on her, and he edged closer. “You needn’t worry him. I assure you, I am in very capable hands.”

Russell’s eyes darkened. “I shall finish feeding the racers, and then saddle Apple. Meet you in the stables, my lord?”

Pleased and relaxed, he nodded. “Thank you, Mister Crowe.” He watched Russell walk out of the kitchen – a thick grace, a gait rife with confidence – and then he turned to Mrs. Davies. “I believe you said something about cold meat and fruit?”

Satisfied that he was up to no good but not being reckless, she smiled and packed him a lunch. 

In mere moments he had mounted Apple, waiting impatiently while Russell put their picnic in her saddle bag, and then the older man was behind him, those strong arms around him, elbows resting with possessive familiarity on his waist, Russell’s breath on his neck. The older man urged Apple to the westerly woods at a slow pace, seemingly unhurried, despite Paul squirming against him. 

Once safely out of the manor’s sight, Paul leaned back against Russell and sighed. He thrilled when Russ pressed kisses to his cheek and jaw, sent the tip of his tongue at the junction of Paul’s jaw and neck. He sighed with contentment.

“You played beautifully today,” Russ said unexpectedly. 

“You heard?”

Russ’s right hand now smoothed up and down his thigh. “Stood under the window like a damned idiot for as long as I could, then went to the kitchen and listened at the vent. Extraordinary, Paul.”

He blushed. “Thank you. I was thinking of you.”

The smile on Russ’s face spilled over into his voice. “Were you, now? Thinking of me and last night?” The whisper turned heated, a shameful secret, as Russ bit the back of his neck. “Thinking of how I kissed you? Made you come?”

Paul groaned and closed his eyes, tilting his head back and surrendering completely. “Oh, Russell....”

That thick hand traveled higher, flattening over his budding erection, rubbing in slow, slow, slow circles until Paul arched back and rolled his hips, giving Russell the swell of his ass to rub against, and this time the groan came from the other man. 

“I want to kiss you,” Paul said shyly.

Russell urged Apple to the edge of the woods, just before the western pasture, and hopped off. He tied her to a low branch and turned back, holding his hands out to help Paul down. Paul went into those open arms and was rewarded with a greedy growl, Russell crushing him against that barrel of a chest, then kissing him soundly.

He let the older man plunder his mouth – there was nothing else to do but acquiesce – little mewling noises escaping him while Russell walked him backwards. Then he was pushed against the sharp bark of a tall tree and Russ was on him, ripping the buttons from their clasps on his shirt, uncaring, exposing him and dipping low for a taste of the flesh on his belly, and Paul moaned, his fingers digging into Russ’s shoulders. It was a madness of such addictive flavor. 

“I want to fuck you,” Russell hissed, slithering up to claim Paul’s mouth again, swallowing Paul’s agreement. 

Russell kicked Paul’s feet apart and settled immediately between his thighs, squatting and then thrusting up, rubbing their cocks together again and again and again until Paul couldn’t hold back the sobs, could only cling and rake and kiss and gasp and beg with the arch of his spine that Russell wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t let him fall. “Take me… against this tree,” he panted. “Take me,” he half-demanded, half-begged. 

“I don’t have anything to ease it,” Russ panted into the crook of his shoulder. 

Paul hadn’t a clue what he was talking about but, “I don’t care.”

Russell gripped his face and stopped. “I do. I won’t hurt you.”

Paul frowned. 

“Jesus Christ.” Russell took huge gulps of air, calming himself. “Turn around.”

Confused but obedient, Paul turned around and faced the tree. He hadn’t expected Russell to slam him forward and pull his hips back, essentially forcing Paul to spread his ass. And then Russ came up close, mounted him fully clothed, and began to grind against him. Paul had to close his eyes and rest his cheek on his hands to avoid scraping his face against the jagged bark. 

Russell grunted, promising it would be better at the woodhouse, when he could get some oil, when he could get inside, but for now it was more than enough – Paul could feel the stiff, throbbing prick poke into the crevice at the top of his thighs, slide between the crack of his ass and he wanted it, wanted the insanity of this depraved act, this mimic of fucking in the middle of his father’s lands. 

“Yes, please!” Paul moaned and Russell’s hands let go their grip on his hips – Paul knew to stay in position – and then Russ pinched his nipples, raked his abdomen, and began shaping his cock through his trousers. “Ah, God!”

Russ was kissing him, swearing behind his ear, biting down on his earlobe, laving at the blush that crept up his neck, and it was too much and he couldn’t bear it, trapped between the thick tree and the hard-rust-lust of the man behind him. 

He slipped down to his knees and Russell followed, didn’t even bother trying to lift him, they just went down to the still-damp grass and Paul let himself be pulled onto all fours and then Russ was at him again, humping him, snapping Paul’s hips back to meet that cock and Paul was riding it, desperate, wishing to God that Russ was in him, truly in him, the crackle of orgasm threatening to break from the base of his spine.

Russ’s pace lost a clear order, it was frantic and jerky, and Paul unbuttoned his pants and stroked his own hardness, wanting to keep up, ruthless with his swollen flesh, and he could hear Russell’s appreciation for what he was doing and then -- _crack!_ \-- they both came hard and with ecstatic cries.

Paul wanted to flop over, but he knew there would be questions about the grass stains on his knees, let alone on the rest of his clothes. Luckily Russell fell over on his back and dragged Paul to spread over him, hands coming to his hair, soothing over his back as they both fought for air. 

“Jesus,” Russ whispered, hands stilling, holding Paul close. “You all right?”

“Hmergh,” Paul replied, utterly spent and content against Russell. Long moments passed and Russell just held him close – in the quiet moments between them, Paul imagined himself on a ferry, slowly killing the distance between Russell’s island and his own. “That was bloody fantastic,” he whispered. Though Russell said nothing, but Paul knew he agreed.

“You’re hungry,” Russell said when Paul’s stomach growled. “You should have your lunch.”

Shyly, Paul smiled and got to his feet, shaky as a newborn colt. Russell quickly stood and steadied him, leaning him back against the tree. “A moment,” he muttered, going to Apple, cleaning himself up with a spare rag that he bunched and hid in a pocket, and then bringing out Mrs. Davies’ bundle. 

Russ sat against the tree while Paul laid his head in the older man’s square lap, eating from Russell’s fingers. Grapes, bread, and sliced beef. They drank from Russ’s flask – coarse whiskey that did nothing to temper thirst but was good nonetheless. All the while, Russ stroked back his hair and Paul purred his appreciation for this. 

“You are a very beautiful man, Paul Bettany.”

“As are you, in your way,” he whispered back. He reached up then for a kiss – a small and delicate one, mouth slightly open but at rest, interlocking with Russell in a sweet, stolen moment. It was like he had walked the world and finally reached his own front door, the path familiar, he had but to extend his hand and he was home. He tangled Russell’s hair into his fist and kissed him harder, wanting to imprint his taste on Russell’s tongue. 

The older man suddenly stiffened and pushed him away, dragged him up and got to his feet, every sense straining toward the forest. “God damn it,” Russ muttered, taking in the state of their clothes – of Paul’s face. “Bugger.”

“What is it?” And then he heard it – the brush and bustle of someone walking in their woods. Another moment and a hunting dog was upon them, baying, and Paul could see Russ was close to kicking it silent, but then Father was there and they were both frozen in place.

“Paul?”

“Sir?” He stepped forward, attempting to shield Russ from his father’s hawk-eyed gaze. 

“Crowe?” Now his father sounded suspicious and put-out. 

“My lord,” Russ returned with just a sliver of disrespect. 

“What is the meaning of this?” His father indicated Apple. 

And the moment of truth had arrived, on an early train, it would seem. He could say he’d been walking and Russ was riding, but that would mean that Russ was misusing one of his father’s horses which would certainly get him fired. “Mister Crowe was kind enough to refresh me on how to ride. We stopped for lunch. I am making excellent progre —”

“Ride!” Lord Bettany bellowed loud enough for the birds to flutter away in panic. “Ride, Paul, ride?” As if, if he questioned Paul enough he would discover it all some jolly ruse. “It’s… ridiculous! Incredulous! The stupidity of you, boy, sometimes is _obscene_.” 

Paul hung his head for a moment, the immediate anger coming off of Russell washing over his back like waves. “I’d only thought to ride as other gentlemen do, Father.”

“You’re not like other gentlemen, Paul.” A stare of purely concentrated venom. “In your state, it’s been your mother’s life-long work just to keep you alive. Now this… Crowe, I don’t blame you, I dare say my son has never told you of his weakened constitution, but —”

“Your pardon, sir, but his constitution is fit and seemly.” Russell stepped forward. “I say fit and seemly, my lord. What’s more, the exercise has benefited his health of late.”

Lord Bettany’s rifle switched hands carefully. “Are you telling me that you knew of his sickness and still let him ride?”

“I’d heard rumors – false rumors,” Russell said boldly, “and your son was anxious to test his own mettle. I’m certain he gets that from you, sir.”

Father looked as if he had no clue how to receive the compliment. “He’s too frail, the doctors are always bleeding him —”

“Well, stop the damn doctors,” Russell said, fists resting on his hips, “I know what I’m talking about. I’ve seen it with horses, same as people. He needs sunshine and exercise and to _eat_ something, preferably three times a day, and rest with the window open at night. I guarantee you, the only thing wrong with your son is the over-attention of his doctors and the women.” 

Paul _gaped_. No one had talked to his father like that. Not in all his life. No one. And Father actually seemed to be considering the words despite the tone. As if… as if he cared… as if he _wanted_ Paul to be well.

“He is my only son,” he said very quietly. Paul frowned, because, there appeared to be more to that statement. 

“Have I ever given you poor advice before?” Russ asked, looking him squarely in the eye.

“Those are horses, this is my _son_ ” Paul felt something warm melt, his chest puffing up with pride. “He is the sole heir to my fortune, otherwise it all goes to the state, damn it.”

And Paul almost lost his balance under the blow of that statement. Russell’s entire body tensed as if he would launch himself across the woods at Father. He put a hand on Russell’s shoulder and stepped forward. “Should anything happen to me, you might get your male heir through Jenny. In the meantime, if we’re done plotting my untimely death, I think I shall walk back to the house and retire.” He was cold and clipped, his hand on Russ the only life-line to the real world. 

Father and Russell stared at him as he stroked Apple and made for the manor. “And father?” he called back. “I’m sorry I’m not James.” He paused, the place pregnant with discomfort, and then, “but I _will_ ride again.”

He bowed his thanks to Russell and walked back to the house, not bothering to glance over his shoulder at the men a safe distance behind him. Shut up in his rooms, he did not come out except to dinner the following night. 

~*~

Upstairs, the servants were frantic to pack the family for their holiday, but downstairs, the supper was a muted, somber affair. Father had not said anything to Mother about Paul’s riding; Jenny had not told her husband or parents about the baby; Paul had somehow neglected to mention that he’d taken the horse-master as a lover – and oh, everyone seemed oblivious to the fact that Jason was rubbing his shoe sensually up and down Paul’s ankle. 

“I am sorry you’re not to go to Brighton with us, Paul,” Jason said in that Jason way of his. “You will be greatly missed.”

Paul looked him straight in the eye and smiled mirthlessly. “I’m sure.” He moved his foot away. “You’ll have to bear it without me.”

Jason sighed. “But it is difficult to find male companionship these days. Of one’s own rank, I mean.” Jason smiled at the ladies lest they be offended. 

“Male companionship is rather easy to come by,” Paul said, perhaps a bit too sharply when Jason’s foot was back, “so I’ve heard.” This time his smile was certain to hold a warning. 

“I find most men of our station boring or brash – you are a scholar and a lover of the arts. A rare treat for a military man such as myself.” Jason’s answering smile was relaxed, predatory. 

“You flatter me, sir.”

“Jason is not an idle flatterer,” Jenny said, cutting her rabbit quietly. “I do wish there was more time for the two of you to get to know each other.”

Bleeding Christ, Paul thought. If he knew Paul any better it would be in the biblical sense. “Yes, it is a shame.” He peered at Jason, at those stark blue eyes, and thought that something there reminded him terribly of Father.

“Well, it is only a few weeks. Perhaps when we are back, and the sun is less severe, I can tempt you to shoot with me sometime, little brother,” Jason said, all good nature, all politeness and familial accord while he _stroked_ Paul’s leg with his own. 

Paul jumped a little and cleared his throat. “Will you have much time for that, what with the baby?”

Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at him, then Jenny. Jenny blushed and scooted forward. “I had hoped to tell you when I was more certain...” She pinned Paul with a look and he winced his apology – but Jason’s foot withdrew at least and he could now think clearly.

“Jenny,” Jason whispered, “are you saying… you’re with child?”

“Yes, darling.” She beamed. 

The table erupted in conversation then — congratulations, toasts, questions and suggestions about the best places to find baby things, and who to invite to the celebrations, and Paul could sit back and chew on the bitterness welling up in him – his father had a minor interest in the family now, his mother was practically glowing, Jason had lost all thoughts of him, thank goodness, and what he really wanted more than anything was to lie down and try to remember Russell and the smell of wet grass and lust and a sense of belonging, of strength.

~*~

The next day the heat wave broke and the morning air once again held a faint moisture. His family left barely saying goodbye – Jenny blew him a kiss from the carriage and Jason gave him a disarming glance – then, blessedly, the carriage rounded the gate, passed the lion statues, and faded from view. 

Two weeks. 

Two, unadulterated, blissful weeks with Russell Crowe. No hurriedness, no hushed tones, no last-minute explanations. Just him, his lover, and the woodhouse. 

Paul couldn’t contain the bounce in his step as he circumvented the house and headed for the stables. He expected to find Russ there, having prepared the carriage, but it was empty, save one small boy sifting hay. 

“Lad?” he called gently. “Do you have any idea where Mister Crowe is?”

The boy bolted round to him and stood like a deer on the moor – caught unawares, frozen in fear. 

“It’s all right, son, no reason to be frightened.” The child seemed to recognize him and relax, the pitchfork loosened from a white-knuckle grip.

“Sir. He went to bathe, sir.”

“Ah. Really? The woodhouse then?” Paul turned.

“No, sir, the pond. With the family away —” and then realizing he’d said too much, the boy shut his mouth with an audible click of teeth. 

Paul smiled. The lad was an earnest little thing. “Are you Max Pirkis?”

Stiffening, the child nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He walked over and extended a hand. “A pleasure, Master Pirkis. I am Paul Bettany; Paul’s just fine.” The child shook his hand as if he were a madman. “Mister Crowe has mentioned you.”

“Has he, sir?” Pirkis asked, suddenly delighted that his master had thought of him. 

“Indeed. He said you were his boy.”

“That I am... sir.” 

“I didn’t realize that he’d had a son.” Paul pursed his lips. He could see it now – well, the hair, perhaps not, nor the mouth….

“Oh, no, sir. I am not _his_ boy, I am his _boy_. He looks after me on account of being… friends… with my mother.”

And so it became clear. “I see. Well, I am very glad to have met you Master Pirkis, for there are very few friends here and I count Mister Crowe as one of them.”

The child smiled. “Max, sir, you can just call me Max. Only Russ calls me Pirkis, and that’s usually when I’ve done something insufferable.”

“Are you mischievous?” Paul asked playfully, but the boy shook his head quite seriously. 

“Not on purpose, sir. I just have a tendency to spend my money on trivial things, he says, sir.”

“Sweets? Toys?” Paul smiled, wondering if there might be some things the lad would like sequestered away in the attic. 

“Of course not,” Max said with no small measure of disdain. “Here.” He nodded, walking over the loft ladder, waiting impatiently for Paul to join him. 

Paul wanted to find Russ as soon as possible, but he sensed the lad did not reveal too much about himself to total strangers all that often, and thought perhaps it best to solidify this newfound friendship with a show of good humor. “And what’s up here?” He climbed the ladder. 

Max Pirkis kept his own little world up in the lofts – a straw mattress and bed frame, a kerosene lamp with a trim wick, clean, straight boards nailed to the wall to serve as bookshelves – good Lord, the books! “Well I’ll be, a library to rival all of Cambridge!”

Below, Max beamed. “Russ thinks me a bit naughty to spend my money on them, but I like to read, sir.”

“May I?” Paul asked, sensitive to how children are about such things, taking out a book on Aristotle’s mathematic principles. “You are a fan of Greek then, Max?”

Max hung his head. “Not yet, sir.” 

Not _yet_. How delightful. “And these others? You learned to read these in school?”

“Never been, sir. Russ taught me.”

Paul peered over the loft’s ledge, then back at the multitudes of books. He descended the ladder. “Mister Crowe taught you to read all these?”

The boy frowned, wanting to be absolutely accurate. “No, sir. He taught me to read English. Then I bought the books. I should like to learn Latin and Greek, sir, but first I have to get into the Navy, like Russ. Then when I make rank and earn money, I can attend university.”

Paul froze. “Mister Crowe was in the Navy?”

Perhaps he’d seemed too eager for information about Russell, but the boy hesitated. “My mum said he was in the Navy. She’d tell stories of him when I was little. When she died, I lived alone. On the docks. Then he came, and he knew me, and said he’d take care of me. I’ve been with him since. He taught me to read.” The boy shrugged and that was all Paul was going to get out of him, though he sensed there was much, much more to the story. 

“Well, it is remarkable good fortune that brought you both to the manor, Max, for now I have two new friends.” Paul bowed a little. “Where did you say Mister Crowe took his bath? The pond?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Such good deeds shouldn’t go unrewarded. I tell you what, Max, would you like me to teach you Latin and Greek? And some Spanish and French? Italian? Or German, perhaps? Arithmetic? Music? Pick your poison.”

“You speak all those bloody languages, sir?” Max asked breathlessly. 

“Indeed I do. Some better than others. And I have some very rare books you might enjoy as well.” He lifted out his hand. “Are we to be friends then, Max Pirkis?”

“Oh yes, sir, please.” Max shook his hand again.

“And while we work on your instruction, perhaps you can tell me a little of our elusive friend Mister Crowe as payment. He never brags, you know, and so I feel as though I know so little of him.” Paul winked and headed out of the stables, toward the pond. 

A lover, a niece or nephew, a pupil – all in one week. How gloriously his circle of intimates had grown! These loves, these true friends around him, with their simple, earnest approach to the world and their bright passions, their kindnesses – these would be the antidote to that porcelain cupped poison his parents served at the table in the manor house. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: The Wrist of a Lover**

Russell swam as if he could shape the water with his hands, as if his will and strength alone propelled him through the universe. The sun glinted off the calm surface of the Bettany’s pond – the air was fresh, an invisible blanket. He was naked, but did not feel so. In fact, the surface had become his top-most layer of skin. The rest of him filled out the expanse of the dark underneath. How he loved to luxuriate in his body this way –pretending he was drowning in Paul.

Floating on his back, he watched the lazy white clouds pass through what promised to be a brilliant blue sky. Thoughts of the young lord could not be exorcised from his mind. It was a constant yearning, pushing beyond fear of connection, of being tied down, as if his body was ravenous to consume Paul, to devour the boy whole. These thoughts, these fragments, followed him everywhere, unformed, merely a sensation, a hum in the back of his consciousness. A cloud hovering over his sky. A dream slipping over the edge of wakefulness. 

That’s why he startled when he looked up and saw Paul’s smiling face hanging above him, slightly to the left side. “Bloody hell!” he bellowed, righting himself. His feet sank into the silt and mud of the pond’s floor. “Paul!”

Paul smiled in that shy way of his – like a child caught day-dreaming – and then he watched as those blue eyes turned hungry and attentive on his chest. “I’m sorry,” Paul murmured, almost slurring the words together. “Max told me you’d be here.”

“Max?” Max _spoke_? To another _person_?

“Oh yes. He said I could find you here. My family’s away now.” The flash of white teeth and those pink lips drawn back in a wicked smile. “I’m all yours.”

Paul was wearing a light grey shirt and carefully fitted black trousers – casual attire for the rich, and Russell couldn’t give a fig if what he did next would ruin it forever. The Bettanys could afford to clothe half the town. He reached out, hand seeking the heart’s desire, and pulled Paul dangerously close to the edge. “All mine?” he asked, his wet fingers twisting Paul’s immaculate collar awry. “Whatever shall I do with you?”

Laughing silently, Paul cocked his head, moving his mouth less than an inch from Russell’s stubbled chin. “I’d rather hoped you’d take me to your woodhouse and ravish me.”

And didn’t that breathy confession go straight to his cock? “Perhaps I ought to ravish you here, save time.” He kissed Paul then – the corner of his mouth, both of them breathing heavily, Paul’s hands questing over his broad shoulders.

“The servants might see,” Paul warned, warming to his kisses instantly. 

“Take off your clothes, Lord Bettany,” Russell said very simply – he hoped the boy could recognize an irrefutable order when given one – and ducked back down into the water. 

“You are a lecher, Mister Crowe.” Paul said with a smile, unhooking his top button. “I shall catch my death in that water.”

Russ snorted. “Come catch your death under the pier, then, out of the sun and away from prying eyes.” Not waiting for reply, he dove out, cutting a path to the short fishing pier, slicing the water with the curve of his body.

He waited, what seemed endless moments but he knew it was less than a minute, and he could see Paul at the bank, naked, pale, gorgeous, but God, too thin, squinting in the sunlight, tentative and then – a graceful, slow descent into the pond that must have been torturous, but Paul’s face didn’t register much pain. He watched the boy swim over to him – slow and somewhat clumsy, but endearing in his eagerness.

Russ beckoned him with a heated glance until they were both under the wooden planks of the pier, little rivets of sun making bars overtop the water, their faces. “Come here,” he whispered softly.

Obedient to a heady extent, Paul was instantly in his arms, wrapping around his body, for warmth, for comfort, Russ didn’t care so long as he could feel those long limbs tucked around him, and then the boy gave up his mouth, whimpered when Russell slid his tongue inside and _stroked_.

“Were you punished?” Paul suddenly asked. 

“What?”

“For yesterday. My father.” Another kiss, this time to suck up the water dangling off his right eyelid.

“Of course not.” No one had punished Russell since he’d been too young to stand up for himself, and he had learned very early in life to fight and a little bit later to always win. “What a ridiculous notion.”

“I’m glad,” Paul whispered, straining up and around him until Russ grabbed hold of his thighs and sort of carried him in the water. “Father does not brook impudence well.”

“Hm,” Russ agreed, licking Paul’s freckled shoulder. “You?”

“I was ignored,” Paul said, drawing out the word ‘ignored’ until it took on several layers of meaning, each one painful to witness. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“I see.” He nuzzled Paul’s chin up, exposing the vulnerable throat and licking there. The _scent_ of the boy was maddening. 

“I don’t wish to speak more of it. I _will_ ride if I want to. They cannot bar me from life forever. Not unless they want me to _jump_ from the tower window.”

“I suppose you could let down your tied bed sheets and I could whisk you away on Byron, little prince,” Russ murmured, the tone meant to be more soothing than the preposterous words. He sucked on the hollow indent at the base of Paul’s neck. “God’s teeth, I’ve thought of nothing but you.”

Paul made a cooing sound and ran wet fingers through his hair. “Kiss me until I can’t breathe anything but you,” the boy whispered.

Ah, so Russ brought the poet out in him? Didn’t take very long to awaken those delicate, academic sensibilities. He smiled and obliged, worrying Paul’s lips until they were swollen, bitten open, the metallic taste of blood smeared in both their mouths, and until Paul’s tongue had entered Russ’s mouth, warred and won only to surrender again; he kissed the boy passionately, sinking down until the surface of the water tickled his highest rib. And still it was not enough. 

Spinning them around, he eased them to the pole closest to the bank – the most sheltered place in the pond, dark, cool, and secret. There he laid Paul gently against the wooden column and ran his hands over the boy’s shaking body. “Cold?”

“Excited,” Paul clarified, blushing prettily. 

“And why’s that?” Russ asked. He was delighted at the way Paul leaned into his every touch. 

“Because I am determined,” the boy said, nipping at Russell’s earlobe until he thought he’d lose what was left of his mind. 

“About what, lad?” His hands ghosted down Paul’s hips, wrapped around and squeezed that perfect arse.

“You’re going to fuck me.”

Russ groaned like an animal in pain. The thought actually did cause him pain – he didn’t think he could _get_ harder. 

“You’re going to bugger me right here, right now.” Paul gripped his jaw and forced Russell to look him in the eye. “No business messing about with oils or pillows or any grand nonsense. Here. Now,” Paul demanded. Demanded like he owned Russell, heart and soul. 

And damn it all if he didn’t.

Russ kissed him and leaned him back, baptizing the back of the boy’s head in water, breathing in the last of Paul Bettany before he took something that could never be replaced. “It will hurt.”

“Something so good _should_ hurt,” Paul whispered against his lips, moaning when Russell lowered them to the soft bank. They were half in the water, little ripples tickling the top of Russ’s buttocks as he clutched Paul to him. 

He lifted the boy’s left leg up over his rump and then caressed the smooth, pale flesh until he found the puckered entrance of the boy’s arse. Slowly, eyes locked, he inserted one finger. Paul did everything he could to keep the wince off his face. Russ prayed the soft water would help ease things a little.

It took time – he used every care. A good half-hour must have gone by until Russ had three fingers in him, stretching, preparing the way – his prick was throbbing, screaming at him to simply rut, but Paul’s eyes, so trusting, his voice, so broken and brave… some things in life were meant to be savored. It wasn’t until Paul begged, begged with his words and the arching twist of his body, that Russ entered. 

Slowly, so slowly, letting the boy cut fingernail half-moons into his back, letting the boy bite down on the cords in his tender shoulder, letting him clench maddeningly around him and cry out. And then, when he was certain, when the coils in Paul’s belly relaxed, Russ established a lazy rhythm, despite every instinct to simply pound away. He was sure to kiss Paul often, to lick away the tears and swallow the sobs, moving with the whim of the water, in and out, a beat of tide, the ebb and flow of aquatic life, the pull of the moon, the heat of the sun, words like foam on the surface, all of it part of the experience – like nothing he had ever known before, no frantic tumble, no desire to crush or own – something similar to the tenderness he’d felt towards Elizabeth Pirkis the one time he took her in the back alley behind a wretched pub and she allowed him to kiss her, because she loved him, because she understood he couldn’t love her back, that they were forbidden – and now he was kissing Bettany as if his mouth held the only oxygen Russell’s lungs might ever breathe. 

He took up Paul’s wrists, one frail-solid assurance of bones in each hand, and drove, drove relentlessly into man beneath him. 

“Russ, Russ,” Paul chanted from under him, urging him on, faster, until it became a heartbeat, a drum in the jungle night, the tick of drenching rain on a roof, an endless barrage and then there was nothing between them but the slick of blood and water as he pistoned into Bettany’s body, as Paul thrashed against him, came against him suddenly, the way a stack of dishes clatters to the floor, and the flesh around his prick clamped like a vice, squeezing his orgasm, his groan, his very essence out – into Paul. He was inside Paul. 

Collapsing, shaking, Russell fell onto the younger man, pushed him further into the tangled grass and cold mud. Paul welcomed him, wrapping his arms around Russell’s shoulders, shh-shhing him, and it was only then that Russ realized he’d been crying. Sobbing, actually, his whole torso wracked with it. With the beauty of it.

When he found words again, he picked them up like broken puzzle pieces, trying to make them fit again. “Mine. Say you’re mine.”

“Only yours,” Paul breathed, his eyes rolling back in his head as he went boneless. 

Russ withdrew then, noting the rusty stain of blood in the water – he wasn’t gentle enough! “Paul?” he called, slapping the boy lightly on the cheek a few times. “Paul!”

Blond eyelashes blinked back water and suddenly blue – blue eyes staring straight into him. A shy smile. “Yes?”

“Are you all right?” Russ was worried, genuinely worried.

Paul leaned up and kissed him sweetly. “A little sore perhaps. Ready for those pillows and the woodhouse now.”

“Ah.” Russ raked Paul with his gaze, deciding he would be fine, and pulled away. “Let’s get you to the spoiling comforts of my chateau then, little prince.”

Biting his bleeding lip, Paul took Russ’s hands and let himself be led back to dry land, both of them clumsy in scrambling up their clothing. Paul walked – no, make that wobbled – letting Russell lead him back to the woodhouse, where he flopped onto Russell’s bed with an exhausted sigh. 

“Am I too familiar with your home?” Paul asked, suddenly insecure. 

Russell was used to sharing every inch of space with one-hundred souls aboard a heavy warship. He could bear the sight of his gorgeous lover stretched across his bed. “You look at home here,” was all he could think to say. 

A sigh so content it filled up the woodhouse, and then Paul opened wide his arms. “Come and let me hold you?” 

This little prince was never quite sure of his place, never quite comfortable in asking for what was rightfully his. Russ liked that Paul wouldn’t make demands on him, but he did want the lad relaxed and sure when they were together. So he said, “Always,” and curled into Paul’s embrace, resting his head against the boy’s heart. They were still wet underneath their clothes, smelling of algae and water-lilies and sunlight. 

“Are you very sore?” he could not keep from asking. 

“Hush, love, I’m well enough.” Paul kissed his temple and held him tightly, stowed him away with tenderness and care before lightly tripping into sleep. 

Russell joined him quick enough, contemplating the insufferably pleasant weight of his lover’s wrist as it rested against his ribs. 

~*~

The next several days were like an extended holiday. The end of summer smelled like an orange peel and wrapped Russell up in a pleasant, ether-like haze. Whereas before his body could tick off the hours of the day automatically, now the moments stretched and sped by according to whether Paul was in his line of sight. Paul sneaked away from the house whenever possible to watch him care for the horses, or, more remarkably, to teach Pirkis from his books, and then at night, they wrapped around each other in the woodhouse and made love. 

Sometimes it was straining and quick, two bodies thrusting together and benefiting from friction and conflict, and other times it was slow, almost methodical, achingly sweet and exploratory. In the mornings, in the gulf between sleeping and awake, Russell almost couldn’t tell where Paul ended and he began, separated only by skin – heartbeat, breath, and thoughts tangled seamlessly together, so that he didn’t want to open his eyes, but then he did, and Paul was there – sweat and flesh and grumbly-perfect, blue eyes dawning through slits – Paul Bettany was kinetic energy safely stilled by Russell’s hands. Paul Bettany was... a crumpled star, tucked safely up in his sheets, under the leaky roof of his woodhouse. 

“I love you,” Russ whispered, as he did every morning, before kissing Paul awake. He never had seen himself as soft or tender-hearted before, but with Paul, he could trust, he could… show the underbelly of his thoughts. 

“Good morning,” Paul murmured, his voice still wrapped up in night. The younger man snuggled into him as if they’d shared a bed since birth and Russ smiled. 

“You’ve got the boy’s hopes up today. You promised to show him Latin, of all things.” He buried his nose in Paul’s hair and inhaled the morning. 

“Ohhh… Did I say I’d teach it to him at dawn? Do I harbor masochistic tendencies I wasn’t previously aware of?”

“Hm. He has his chores first and you must make an appearance at breakfast.”

“Why? The servants never see me eat.”

“And they mustn’t see you creeping home before they even have a chance to knock on your door and hear you refuse whatever Mrs. Davies has made today.”

Paul grimaced. “Weak tea, eggs, and soldiers. Never changes, never will.”

“So demand coffee and porridge for once,” Russell said abruptly, angry at the way Paul allowed himself to be ill-managed in every aspect of his life. 

The younger man stiffened a little and pulled away. Russell followed, reached around his waist and leaned forward, touching his forehead to the small of Paul’s back in apology. “You need to learn to fight for yourself. You need to learn that you’re worth fighting for.”

Paul sighed. “It’s never so simple, Russ.” He turned around, agonized. “They want my brother, not me. They blame themselves for letting him die, so for me it’s weak tea and a tower room. God forbid, it could be worse.”

“How’s that?” Russ asked, interlocking his fingers to keep from shaking Paul.

“They could blame me for his death.” And then he watched Lord Paul Bettany crack into a million shards of man. 

Russ was on his feet, hands leaving bruises on Paul’s shoulders then, forcing the man to focus on him. “You were _eight_ years old. The horse spooked. Your brother fell. It happens every day. I doubt there was anything you could have done differently; I doubt there was anything you could have done to save him.”

“But —”

“Damn it,” Russell growled. “Your brother is dead. _You_ are alive!”

Paul looked broken, stained with sweat and guilt and the tentative desire to believe in what Russell was saying. He looked so _young_.

“You can’t go on like a doll left on a shelf. You have to step out into the world, Paul. Otherwise, both of you died that day.” Russell cupped Paul’s face and kissed him. “Now get back to your breakfast, and so help me if Mrs. Davies says you had eggs and soldiers, I’ll tan your hide.”

A watery smile was his reward, Paul kissed his cheek, and was gone into the orange-peel morning. 

He didn’t see the man again until three in the afternoon, when Pirkis had finished cleaning the stalls, helped him shoe two work horses, and passed around the feed. The boy had even scrubbed his face and hands and set up a little work station in the livery, using the huge anvil as a table for his slates and books. 

Paul entered with a serious air, smiling briefly at Russell and then pulling up a stool beside the boy. Russell worked on making new horseshoes and buckles and watched his two boys, bent together over a book and a patch of sunshine, Paul’s voice softly reciting, “Puella, puellae, puellum,” and Pirkis' younger voice echoing. It was staggering how happy this made him. How easily Paul Bettany fitted into this fantasy life – this transparent safety.

They studied for hours, Russell listening intently but trying to be nonchalant about it. Pirkis was a smart enough bloke, but stumbled over verb tenses. Russell knew the boy would be practicing from sunup to sundown for the next few days, and he would have to endure endless ‘a’s and ‘ae’s and ‘um’s and all of it would be worth it someday, he was certain. For now, though, Paul kept sparing him hungry glances and Russell couldn’t wait for night to fall.

He had dinner with the servants that evening – a rare thing indeed, but he couldn’t bear the anticipation of Paul coming to the woodhouse. So he sat at the long oak table in the lower kitchen, taking his place past the footmen but before the grooms and maids. Soup, and bread slightly stiff with the age of two days’ air. Cold pheasant and a nice spot of ale. He should eat here more often, instead of taking his meals to the stables and hut. 

Pirkis certainly enjoyed eating at the table – it probably gave the boy a sense of family – his eyes volleying back and forth between Mr. Edgar and Charlie. Mr. Edgar was very fond of both Charlie and young Kenny, the footman and hall boy for the family. The lads seemed far more interested in flirting with the maids and shirking their work, but even Russell had to admit they were interesting characters. In fact, all the servants of the manor were fascinating – Mr. Edgar with his spotless spectacles and an accent that reminded Russell of the most fastidious school master. Mrs. Davies, a rotund matron who quite possibly couldn’t remember his name but was always sure to leave the thickest carrots for his horses. The lads and maids, scrubbed down, muted, their youth bubbling up in laughter every once in a while. And then Pirkis and himself, the dark horses, the strangers in their midst. It was a shame Paul could never come down to this table. No one would insist on weak tea for him here. 

“Mrs. Davies,” Russ said suddenly, drawing many an eye. “Will you settle a bet for me, ma’am?”

“Aye?”

“Did Lord Bettany have tea, eggs, and soldiers for breakfast today, by any chance?”

Mrs. Davies looked quite struck. “Do you know, it is the most curious thing? He walked into the kitchen and demanded coffee and porridge! Porridge! I’ve not made porridge in ages, but he insisted, and waited for it, don’t you know, plain and pleasant as could be. He ate it standing up, right there at the cutting board, and then thanked me with a kiss on the cheek. It was the strangest thing!”

Russell beamed. “Thanks, ma’am. I’ve a wager to collect.” He winked at Pirkis, who of course hadn’t a clue but was happy to share in his joke, then sobered under Mr. Edgar’s curious glance. He must leave – it was getting late. “I shall have to say good evening, but I thank you for my place at the table. Mrs. Davies, delicious, as always.”

The others bid him goodnight. Mr. Edgar held up his hand in a rare gesture of approval. “I hope you’ll join us more often, Mister Crowe. Tell us stories of where you’ve been, what you’ve done, before coming to Thistle Hawk.”

He shot Pirkis a look but smiled. “Nothing so very interesting, sir, but I’d be delighted at another time.” Bowing, he got up from the bench and walked out of the room. The night was sprinkled already with stars when he checked on the horses one last time, and then hastened to the woodhouse.

Paul was already there, sitting on the bed, biting his nails nervously. “I’d worried something’d happened.”

Russell took three paces and got down on his knees, pressing a kiss to Paul’s heart. “No love, just took a meal with the staff, that's all. From time to time I have to let the world see me or I become a curiosity and then no one affords me privacy.” He enjoyed the fabric of Paul’s fine shirt as it rubbed against his cheek. 

Long white fingers threaded into his hair, massaged his scalp. “The soreness is gone,” Paul announced matter-of-factly. “I can’t feel you anymore.”

Russell eased them back to the bed, covering Paul with his weight, trading kisses. The younger man was already undressing him. 

“I want to feel you when I move, when I sit still. I want to feel —”

He kissed the boy until he had him writhing, then tossed aside their clothes the way a snake abandoned old skin, and soon they were naked against one another. The vial of oil he’d kept beside the bed he uncorked, its pleasant, masculine aroma filling the woodhouse. “Turn over, little prince, and let me have you that way.”

Treated to the delightful sight of such a smooth expanse of white flesh – the _muscles_ in Paul’s arse were enough to make him salivate – he quickly prepared the boy and then coated his own straining cock. Then all hinged on Paul’s breath – ah-ah-ah – as he took Russell inch by inch, as Russell worked his way into the young lord until fully sheathed. 

He drilled relentlessly, staying at the same pace for what seemed like hours, watching Paul rub his forehead against the bed, listening to Paul pant and moan and plead for more, feeling Paul thrust and roll and hitch as Russell worked him. When it got to be too much, he let loose, snapping his hips forward again and again, targeting Paul’s nub of pleasure each time, until he couldn’t help but come, and Paul followed, triggered by his own declaration of, “Fuck, yes!”

Paul was always sleepy after sex. Russell found it endearing. Russell had to admit that he was thoroughly endeared with Lord Paul Bettany. He just wished he could give Paul something better than this woodhouse. 

“Mayhap one day I’ll come to your tower and make love to you there.”

“That’s a brilliant idea,” Paul mumbled into Russell’s shoulder, sighing when Russ brought up the blanket around them. “Let’s do that tomorrow.”

“Sleep,” Russ ordered, his own voice thick with exhaustion. 

Paul nodded. Russ could feel the steady puff of breath at his neck and knew the boy was gone. He turned down the lamp and settled in, his hand stroking the ridge of bone in Paul’s wrist. 

~*~

They stole time whenever possible. The servants were quite used to not seeing young Bettany for long stretches of the day, so he was seldom missed. It was no easy task, however, for Paul to sneak his cello down the stairs and out to the woodhouse, so after the second clumsy attempt, Russ just kept it stored under the bed, with the violin. 

Side by side, like mates.

The last week of their precious reprieve, the mornings were dedicated to solid work, and in the afternoons Paul taught Max and then retired to the woodhouse where he and Russell played music. Paul wasn’t familiar with many sea shanties, and Russell wasn’t all that entranced by the clunky baroque pieces, but he was able to read half of what Paul wrote, and picked up the other half just by listening. They would play Paul’s excellent snippets until one of them usually broke, putting their instrument down, crossing over the expanse of two or three footsteps, biting and sucking and pawing at the other. 

Though the woodhouse was small, they rarely ended up on the bed. In fact, Russ felt a swelter of pride at the fact that he barely managed to shred every article of clothing from Paul Bettany’s body. His favorite thing was the ribs – curves of solid bone traceable with his tongue. 

“You need to eat more,” Russ murmured, biting down on Paul’s hipbone.

“Oh!” Paul surged up. “That makes it... official... Everyone has now... said so... oh God, yes.”

He swallowed Paul’s prick whole, bobbing, tasting deep, reducing the younger man to a fit of trembling and exhaled frustration. Then he covered Paul and kissed him tenderly, using his fingers to stroke them both, staring into the large pupils. “Beautiful,” he breathed, actually afraid to say it out loud.

Paul’s arms came up around him, hooking over his shoulders, hanging on as Russell drove them to completion. Nothing in the world gave him greater satisfaction than the strained, muffled gasp Paul choked out when coming – when coming hard. 

Russell tucked that away, safe in a pocket of truth, locked deep away inside himself. _He_ made Paul make that sound.

They kissed, Russ smiling as Paul’s eyelids inevitably drooped in that endearing way of his. “A nap, then?”

Paul stretched. “No, want to be awake….”

“Why’s that, love?” He peppered the boy’s chin with kisses. 

A tremulous sigh. “Family will be back tomorrow. I want more time.” Paul kissed his throat, his ear. “I wish... I wish I could —”

He stopped Paul then, kissing him fiercely for several moments. Russell Crowe was not a man for wishing – wishing was a waste of time. “Come to bed. I shall read to you.”

Delighted by the unexpected offer, Paul rolled them over, kissed him soundly and then crawled up into the bed and waited patiently while Russell went over to the shelves and picked up a water-logged book. “The Heart of Darkness,” he said quietly, “by Joseph Conrad, collected from ‘Youth,’ 1902.”

“A new one! I had not read that yet,” Paul said, snuggling against the pillow. Russell dropped to the bed and let the boy wind around him, and then set out to read. He kept his voice low, like the soft crunch of fine gravel, and it wasn’t long before young Lord Bettany slept upon his shoulder, mouth open, eyes closed, the very essence of contentment like a blanket draped about them. 

~*~

It was no secret that Russell was no great admirer of the rest of the Bettany family. But it was all he could do to chew on the inside of his cheek when Lord and Lady Bettany returned from Brighton, their condescension palpable, their false concern for Paul ridiculous and insulting. Well, to be fair, Lady Isaacs _did_ seem genuine when asking after Paul, but Lady Bettany....

“No fevers, then? No chills?” she asked almost immediately, while Charlie and Kenny unloaded their trunks from the carriage. “You didn’t drink coffee, did you?”

“For God’s _sake_ , Vanessa,” Christopher Bettany muttered. “Leave him alone. He’s alive.” And since that was more words than Lord Bettany had said to his family in the sum of a month, he went back to looking stoic and ignoring the servants. He caught Russell’s eye, and began to move toward the side of the house.

“Good to see you again, little brother,” Sir Isaacs said affectionately – Russell heard this only; his eyes were locked with Christopher Bettany, who took great strides toward him now. 

“My lord?”

“How fare the horses?”

“Excellent. Healthy and strong as you left, my lord.” He glanced over at Paul – Isaacs had his arm wrapped around the younger man’s shoulders, Lady Isaacs on his other side. He sighed. Holidays were over. 

“Good. Very good. You must begin exercising Pirkis immediately. I’ve a race to win.”

Russell lifted a brow, his attentions now fully focused on this conversation. “Sir?”

“Crowe?”

“Is this a track race or private sport?” Because it made all the difference. A private race on Lord Bettany’s grounds would be civil, relaxed. A track race meant he’d have to worry for Max’s safety at every moment, and frankly, he didn’t like it. 

“Byron is to go up against my son-in-law’s newest purchase. You have one week, they will race at Pembyrn. Jason had a track put up while on honeymoon. No jumps, nothing too grand.”

Ah. Just for sport then. “I think you may safely wager, my lord.”

“Indeed,” Lord Bettany said, smiling with all the warmth of a winter stream. 

A last glance revealed that Paul had gone inside – no doubt the women would prattle on and Sir Isaacs would force further intimacy upon him – but perhaps tonight. Perhaps....

Russell reminded himself he was not a wishing man. He was a little surprised then, when evening fell and the manor was once again quiet, that he could hear soft footsteps up to his woodhouse, and then the drum of light fingers. 

He couldn’t find his voice, so he simply got up and opened the door. There Paul stood, looking weary and disheveled, tired even. “Love?”

The young lord melted against him, head tucking under Russell’s chin, and sighed. “Bloody family,” he mumbled, nuzzling. “Just hold me a bit?”

“Just for a bit,” Russ whispered, ushering Paul over the threshold and inside their little sanctuary. “Do you want to play your music?”

“No.”

“Would you like me to read to you?”

“I can’t fall asleep here.” He looked miserable.

“Shall I debauch you then?” Russ asked, shooting for levity. 

“Sit down,” Paul whispered. He did so. Then the younger man sat sideways on his lap and wrapped around him. “Just hold me for a while. Just let it be quiet.”

So he did, sitting on the hard mattress, a young man smelling of water-lilies and carrying something akin to despair on his shoulders. He stroked Paul’s hair, and kissed his temple, and could think of nothing to say to ease the young man’s mind. What could be so troubling as all this?

“What’s got you, little prince?”

But Paul only sighed and shook his head. “I must go. Perhaps I shall see you tomorrow.”

“I’m training Pirkis with Byron again. He’s to have a match against Sir Isaacs next Monday.”

Stopping short – actually hitching in place – Paul turned and stared at him. “Do be careful, Russell. Jason is sneaky, I think.”

Russell frowned and then smiled. “He’s betting against his father-in-law. He wouldn’t be stupid to risk their relationship over something as silly as a horse race, for certain.”

Paul did not look convinced. “He likes beautiful things.” This was murmured to his floor.

“Paul?”

“Good night, Russ.” A brave smile. “I shall try to come and see you and Max in the ring tomorrow. Maybe even continue with his Latin, if there’s opportunity.”

He advanced, herding Paul up against the door. Pressing in. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” So close, close enough to kiss.

Paul stroked a delicate finger along his jaw. “Many things, dearest, but none too important.” He leaned closer to Russell, touched their foreheads. “My heart and head are full of you.”

They kissed – it was heated and hungry and damn it, he didn’t want Paul to go – but all too soon he pulled away, made Russell open the door, and then there was nothing but the last of July on the night wind and the faint trace of Paul Bettany on his clothes. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Harness the Wind**

On the day of his family’s return, Paul felt as one does standing in the middle of a whirlwind – a belying calm in the center of chaos. The servants were frantic to bring the house up to scratch; he was desperate to claim the last few minutes with Russell – his lips still swollen and hot when the carriage came round the drive. 

His mother smelled like the sea and other women’s drawing rooms; she was going on about his health, naturally. Jenny’s hair had lightened just a little in the sun. His father wore a perfectly-tailored, white cotton suit that caught Paul’s eye and Jason… Jason was smiling at him and hugging him as if they were long lost brothers, separated by years and thousands of miles. 

Paul didn’t quite _understand_ the man’s nature. To most of their class, Sir Isaacs was serious but kind, reserved, and very well respected. His time in the military was rumored to have been perhaps a bit ruthless, but so it was expected in the Royal Scots Greys. Still, he was always _touching_ Paul. Now his arm draped over Paul’s shoulders and he didn’t mind it really, Jenny was smiling on the other side of him, and it had been so long since he’d had warmth and affection from anyone (other than Russell, of course) but… along the back of his spine, in the pit of his stomach – it felt forced. 

Fake.

He just didn’t trust Jason Isaacs. Being around the man brought to mind the phrase ‘wolf in sheep’s clothing’ and it made him uneasy. He was uncomfortable at best around most nobility, anyway. So perhaps Jennifer would forgive him as he pulled away when they reached the foyer. 

The others were all busy handing off their hats and gloves, Jennifer’s parasol was still damp from the beach, and he peered through the door to see his father stalk after Russell. Good Lord. Probably wondering about the bloody horses. Paul was fine, by the way, thanks for inquiring. 

“And how did you spend your time?” Jason asked over Mr. Edgar’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said to the servant as he let go of his gloves. “Did you spend all your days in your tower?”

Paul squinted just a bit. “I played. I walked. Even went for a swim. It was nice to have the place to myself… Though I did miss you, of course,” he said to Jenny, kissing her cheek.

“I brought back some toffee,” she murmured, slipping it into the pocket of his waistcoat. “Don’t tell Mother.”

He grinned. _This_ was tradition – Jenny sneaking him sweets. “I shan’t say a word, I promise you.” 

“Darling, do be sure and rest,” Jason cautioned his wife, placing his hand on her belly. “The carriage ride was quite bumpy.”

Jenny’s smile was… Jesus, he hoped he didn’t look at Russell like that, how embarrassing. She pursed her lips. “I’m all right, my dear. But I’ll have a little lie down as soon as I’m unpacked.”

Jason ran a finger down her nose and they both watched her slowly ascend the grand stair. Then the man’s eyes were on him and Paul felt pinned to the floor, suddenly. He swallowed. “Did you enjoy your trip?” he breathed.

“Two weeks with one’s in-laws? What’s not to treasure?” he said, and Paul had to laugh despite himself.

“I’m sorry – you did marry into this family willingly,” Paul joked. Jason smirked and nodded, motioning them through the parlor. 

“I’m parched. Come to the kitchen and share a drink?”

“All right,” Paul said, but Jason had already started ahead as though he expected Paul to follow. He watched Jason dazzle Mrs. Davies into three helpings of lemonade, drinking each glass down without pause – simply unquenchable. 

“There, much better,” Jason said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in a most suggestive and ungentlemanly manner. Paul blushed and nodded. 

“Silly me,” the older man said, “would you like some?” He held out the half-drained pitcher. It was like he could feel the man’s touch from across the room. 

“Not at all.” Mother would have a field day to find he’d drank anything so acidic. “I should get back to my work…” Paul looked up at the kitchen stairs as if they were his only salvation. 

Jason nodded. “Well. They’ll be plenty of time to see you at Pembyrn next week?”

His attention snapped back into place. “Sorry?”

A feral grin. “Your father and I have made a little wager. His Byron against my Windsong, next week, on my track. You will come, of course?”

Paul didn’t want to go Pembyrn. He didn’t want to watch horses compete. He certainly didn’t want to sit next to Jason for the better half of an afternoon and make small talk. But this was Jenny’s husband. And putting Byron in a race was like putting Russ in a boxing ring – how could he not go? “Of course.” He smiled. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Are you a fan of racing?” Jason asked pleasantly, following him to the base of the steps. He did hope the man wouldn’t take it upon himself to come up to the tower. 

“Not at all,” he said quickly, clasping his hands behind his back. “But I wouldn’t dream of missing this. Father so enjoys beating people.”

A dangerous eyebrow skyrocketed. “Then we share that in common.” 

And yes, Paul could see it now. Jason was rather like Christopher Bettany when focused, driven, devoid of hesitation – a force of nature. He wished for Russell’s soothing hands and soft voice, then, and envied Byron in his stall. 

“Well… I’d better... to my music...” he mumbled, gripping the banister.

“Yes,” Jason said indulgently, “go make us something beautiful.”

He trudged up the stairs, the word ‘beautiful’ hanging off the edge of his thoughts. Once in the tower room, he felt he could breathe again. Relaxed his shoulders. The room was a comforting mess; he’d been writing at odd hours, whenever Russell had chores. Nothing cohesive, but each arrangement sparkled with a certain… something. 

Paul missed his cello. But he was glad it was with Russ. Instead, he went to the piano and stroked his knuckles over the ivories. Gently. He wanted something to calm his nerves. He sat down, foot hovering over the pedals, and just let it drip like water from his fingertips. The afternoon bled out that way, and soon Mr. Edgar was knocking on his door, reminding him of dinner.

Quickly slipping into a pressed shirt and trousers, he joined his family at the table. They hadn’t bothered to wait for him – nice to see no one was eager to break with tradition and actually expect him to join the conversation. He listened with one ear while Jennifer spoke about baby things, which didn’t set too well with Father, he was traditional and thought such topics should be confined to the company of women, but as it was Mother’s favorite subject, the men endured. 

Occasionally, Jason and Father would remark about hunting, or gaming or, God forbid, the unruly natives of various countries. India seemed of particular interest. They shaped the world somewhere between salad and soup courses, and Paul stared at the candles and imagined the music he could wring out of Russ’s violin. 

Around the time Mrs. Davies presented dessert – pudding again, how exotic – Jason’s foot was back, resting on the side of his ankle. In every other aspect, he seemed wholly focused on Jennifer, but there was no mistaking it – Jason Isaacs was trying to seduce him. 

_God_ he wanted to run to Russell right then. But it couldn’t be managed. Desserts, and then to the parlor, perhaps Jenny would sing, and _then_ he would have to pretend to go to bed and sneak out later. Another two hours at least. The minutes dragged on the way one might pour molasses from a bottle – time mocked him. 

He was right. Brandy, cigars; Mother on the antique harpsichord and Jenny’s sweet singing voice, not trained, but formidable. No one asked Paul to play. His parents sort of tolerated his music, and he sort of tolerated that they felt that way. No sense in stirring the pot. 

But then Jason asked him to play. And he rose to the occasion. He wanted to nettle his father – wanted to force the man to at least acknowledge his presence if not his talent, so with a modest flourish, he swept back his jacket, and let loose on the keys – Beethoven – enemy of the scales. But the time he finished he was almost certain the instrument would be afire from the sheer speed of his fingers. It was well done. Masterful.

Jason got to his feet, Jenny clapped, and Mother nodded. Father, however, swallowed whatever praise or criticism there was to be had with another sip of brandy. Strange how Paul could almost feel the liquor burn in _his_ belly. 

“I am to bed now,” he said suddenly. “It’s been an exciting day, your return. Goodnight, Mother. Jenny. Sir — Jason…” He turned to go without a word to Father and if anyone cared to notice, his back was already to the room. 

He was going to wait until everyone was asleep and then creep down the back stairs, but heaven knows how late they’d be at it, and he needed Russell _now_. So instead of heading to the tower, he cut his way quickly through the kitchen and out to the back grounds. He’d memorized the way, even in this dreadful dark, and before long he rapped on Russ’s heavy oak door. 

“Love?” Russ answered, and it _ached_.

“Bloody family,” he said by way of explanation. He begged to be held then, and Russell obliged, the scent and strength of Russ’s warm muscles instantly setting things to rights. He was home, here. He was truly wanted. How he wished he might stay. 

He would stay – would risk everything – if he alone was the one to suffer for it. But alas, it was late and they would all retire to bed soon. Someone might notice him gone, and then there’d be a to-do. Paul extricated himself from Russell reluctantly, tempted by heated kisses and reassuring desire, but his better sense prevailed. 

Back in the tower, he played something delicate and slow, and wished the wind were strong enough to carry it to Russell. 

~*~

The next day, Paul discovered an entirely different side to his lover. Beginning at dawn and going on clear through past breakfast and brunch, Russ put Pirkis through his paces. The man was totally focused, his voice low, gruff, his eyes focused with flawless intent on the most intricate details – the flick of Byron’s ears, the turn-out of Max’s ankles. The length of the boy’s fingernails were not to compete with his handling of the reins. He was relentless. Almost brutish.

“Rhythm, lad, rhythm,” Russ grumbled deep in his chest, sounding somewhat put upon. “Use your thighs, not your arse!”

_This_ was barked loud enough to carry to the house – Paul watched quite helpless as Mother got up from the table and closed the window against such abrasive language. He could still see Russ through the glass, however, barking at Max for the smallest transgression. Apparently he took horse racing very, very seriously. He obviously had ambitions to develop his reputation for perfection. Which was undoubtedly what attracted Father to hire him in the first place. 

Still, he couldn’t help wincing on Pirkis’ behalf. Not that the child once complained or looked chagrined – no, if anything, he seemed even more determined to master himself and the horse. They looked magnificent, tearing up the ring, bounding over makeshift bars of old wood, hay, and large stone. 

After lunch Paul sneaked a pitcher of Mrs. Davies’ lemonade out to the ring and offered a glass first to Russell and then young Pirkis. The boy gulped it down and smiled affectionately, but Russ was silent, the cup dangling in his hand. “That’s enough for today. Put him back, rub him down. Then you and I will discuss the course.”

“Yes, sir.” Max tipped his hat to Paul. “Thank you for the drink, my lord.” 

Paul nodded and waited until the boy was out of sight. “Any chance of his lessons today?”

Russ pushed off the ring’s fence and began walking toward the livery. “He’s having a more important lesson today.”

Paul very much doubted that jumping bales of hay would be more important than learning Latin, but, he supposed that was determined by perspective, and _that_ was shaped by class. “Winning is very important to you. Isn’t it?”

“It’s why I was hired,” Russ said tersely. 

“Yes, but… it is also a matter of professional pride.” Paul licked his lips. “It’s a week away and you seem a tad obsessed, love.”

Russell scanned the area, but no one was about, so his shoulders relaxed at the endearment. “Subject to the requirements of the service.”

“What?” It sounded like a rote phrase if ever Paul heard one. 

“I must do what I must do to fulfill my duties. My duties, at this moment, are to win your father his bet. I do not depend on other men’s good graces, but on my own strength of will and character. I win.”

Truth be told, Paul didn’t like this side of Russell. It was daunting, attractive in his passion, but... so competitive. “Doesn’t that necessarily entail that someone else loses?”

Russ raised an eyebrow. “That would be the point, yes, little prince.”

Not to be thrown off, Paul squinted. “Would it not be more... civil... to enjoy the experience then, since this is only a game between family —”

“My work is not a game, sir,” Russell bit off. “It’s not a damned hobby. It’s what I _do_. It’s who I _am_. Russell Crowe may not be high born or terribly educated but he _is_ an honest winner. _That_ I will prove next week.”

There was no argument left in Paul. Russ would have his way. He would push hard, perhaps too hard, but then, maybe Pirkis was used to this, and it was normal in their world, and Paul was too delicate with his books and linens and fine sensibilities. He nodded, and let the matter drop. 

“Shall I see you tonight, do you think?” He bit his lip, trying not to sound too eager.

Russell glanced at him for a long time. His voice was very soft. “I’ll need my rest. I must remain focused.”

Paul smiled somewhat brokenly. “Am I such a distraction?”

Leaning in close – Paul could smell his sweat – Russell whispered, “When you are in my line of sight, you are all I see. That’s not only dangerous, it’s a damned waste of time that Pirkis and I don’t have. Not this week.”

Perhaps it was true, but it was hardly necessary to so bluntly dismiss him. Paul felt himself flush in anger and disappointment. “I see. You’ve now a new conquest – this race – and I shall have to simply be content to be brushed aside —”

“As I said, I am subject to the requirements —”

Paul interrupted, “By all means, don’t let me keep you!” He turned swiftly on his heel and stalked up to the house. 

He didn’t take the evening meal with his parents, though this was nothing unusual. Although he was glad Jason had returned to Pembyrn, he was sad to see Jenny go. He would have liked her soothing company that evening. For he was in knots. 

They’d quarreled. It was not bad, as rows go. But things were left unresolved. Russell was probably perturbed – at the very least – that Paul had whined like a woman during his work. But Paul was furious at being so recklessly abandoned in favor of a bloody stupid _horse_. The entire thing was ridiculous, so utterly in contrast to the two weeks they’d spent alone together. All of this began at Father’s return, at Father’s prompting and drive to best Jason. 

He really wished he could take a small job and live on his own, but his parents would never allow it. The disgrace of him working would lead to his disinheritance, and Father would never part with an allowance to let him keep a little apartment somewhere. And yet, that was really all his heart desired.

The little white Brighton cottage with eight rooms, perhaps. A fireplace in the kitchen and bedroom. Some trees. Large windows with westerly sun. A good little nook for the piano. Somewhere where he could write his music and make love to Russell… but what a wholly impractical notion. Russell would never leave behind the horses, and he would only be free when his parents were dead.

Frustrated, Paul sat down at the piano and attacked the keys, playing something sharp and stabbing. He wasn’t quite sure whom he was killing with this song – his father, Jason, or Russell – perhaps all of them. It didn’t matter. He got it out, scratched it down half-heartedly, and crawled into bed before even all the stars turned out. 

~*~

He did not see Russell privately for the rest of the week. It was a very lonely time for Paul, watching the older man toil ceaselessly in the ring below, until Byron could beat or match his fastest time, until Pirkis could predict the horse’s every move, until Paul would go mad at the very mention of anyone’s knees or arse. 

Most of his days were spent taking long walks away from the house and in the evenings he shut himself up in his room, making music or reading. He was reading, in fact, when Russell Crowe climbed up the ivy lattice and slipped into his open window. 

“Sweet Christ,” Paul swore under his breath, getting up from his reading chair and going to assist Russell in bringing his left leg over the sill. “What the bloody hell?”

“Does Lady Bettany know you swear like that?”

“What are you _doing_ here?”

Russ grinned. “I’ve come to make amends.”

He blinked. Rapidly. Not a dream, then. “What?”

Russ stepped into his space and looked intently at him. “I was rude and ungenerous with you this week, and I’m… I regret that.” 

Paul frowned but nodded. “Right. Yes. Very good.” He patted Russell on the shoulder, trying to ignore the delicious coil of muscle there. “All’s well. Now climb down again before I’m murdered and you’re sacked.”

But Russ just stepped closer, until they breathed the same air, until Paul was dizzy with his scent – soft soap. Russell had bathed just before coming. 

“I’ve done all I can. Byron is as ready as he’ll ever be. Pirkis is as prepared as he can be, without being invited to study Isaacs’ track. They are both asleep and I am left with no duties to attend to.”

Paul folded his arms. “Oh, I see. Done with chores and now you’re ready to pick me back up and play?” It was more harsh than he’d intended, but there it was.

In a surprising move, Russell grabbed up his arms and pulled him close, sliding a well-shaved cheek against his ear, his neck. “Don’t be like that, Paul,” Russ whispered. “Not when I need you.”

Perhaps Russ did need him. Perhaps he was very nervous and desired comfort and distraction tonight. Still, Paul had some pride. Even if his straining prick believed otherwise. “Do you expect me to be at your beck and call? Snap your fingers and I come running. Turn your back, and I resign myself to the shadows?”

Russell stared at him for long, long, silent moments, until Paul could count the hues in those blue-green eyes. “Is it not the same for you when you compose, Paul? Do you not give yourself over completely to the work? Even at the expense of your family, your friends? Your health?”

Paul swallowed. Russ had him there. He’d never once put anyone before his music. But then, he’d never once loved anyone so much. “I’ve never had anything _other_ than my music.”

“And I’ve only had my work.” Russ’s hand smoothed up and down his back – the gesture did not assume Paul had forgiven him, but it was forming a silent connection nonetheless. Russell was reading him by the tension in his muscles. 

“But then I had _you_. Suddenly my family returns and you don’t even notice me standing next to you. I could have poured that pitcher of lemonade all over you and you mightn’t have blinked.”

“Oh, my lord,” Russell breathed, his lips ghosting over Paul’s, “how wrong you are.” He kissed Paul then, the kind of kiss that made his toes curl in his shoes and his lungs forget they needed oxygen. 

Russ bent him backwards, hand cupping the back of Paul’s head, and ended the kiss sweetly, lips lingering, slick, possessive, his charisma overpowering, until Paul was reduced to fisting Russell’s shirt and making little mewing sounds in the back of his throat. 

“Don’t,” Paul began, and noted how Russ instantly froze. As if terrified that Paul no longer wanted him, even with evidence of Paul’s desire pressing against his hip. “Don’t shut me out again. It makes me feel... cheap.”

Russ’s eyes darkened. “I don’t think that of you.”

Paul nodded. “Then don’t act like you do.”

A vigorous nod in reply, and Russ was back, attacking his mouth again. Tongue sweeping in Paul’s mouth, Russ backed them up to the bed and pushed Paul down on it, quickly covering him. “Your parents are both in their separate rooms. We’ll have to be quiet, love.” 

Paul’s response was to silently open Russell’s shirt and pull it up over the man’s head. He was so beautiful, in his own way. So... masculine. The man had the heart of a bear. 

“Want you,” Paul whispered as he licked and bit down on Russ’s chest. Russell quickly divested him of his clothes. His response was a grunt, and then flesh whispering over flesh, Paul opening his legs, letting Russ settle in and start up an immediate rhythm. He could feel the hot, hard length, skin like velvet, as it slid along his upper thigh. He had to chew his cheek to keep from moaning. Instead he showed his appreciation by bucking up, by clutching Russell close.

“So long since...” Russ trailed off, sucking on his earlobe, making Paul pant quietly now. They were careful not to shake the bed, Russ never more than an inch from his face, communicating everything with his expression, with his arresting eyes, stifling Paul’s groans with kisses. 

“The floor,” Paul suggested, and Russ got up and waited for Paul to get down on his hands and knees. Then Russ covered him, his prick trapped between the tops of Paul’s thighs, and they mimicked fucking – no oil, no self-control in reserve to actually see it through – and Paul had to lean forward, press his mouth to his hands, lest he cry out. 

They were getting close when Russ’s powerful hands forced Paul onto his back, and then laid down on top of him, making Paul bear all his weight. It didn’t take long – Paul unraveled first and then _licked_ up and down Russ’s jaw until the older man broke control, thrusting sharply, and came. Then the older man crawled down the length of Paul’s torso and licked away any trace of their spending. 

He sighed, beyond content. “Hold me for a little while?” he whispered. 

Russ got up to turn off the lamp and then flipped on his back on the bed, letting Paul snuggle in before covering them with the blanket. “Paul?”

“Mm?”

“You don’t have to keep asking.”

Paul blinked, pressed a kiss to Russ’s pectoral, and fell asleep with a smile on his face.

~*~

Getting to Pembyrn was a bit of a task. Mother was obsessed with finding just the right outfit to wear to the race – she wanted to appear neither too casual nor too formal. Father and Russell wanted to get there as soon as possible to test the track. Therefore Mother’s delay – and Paul’s, for he lingered in the bath, remembering Russell’s heated kisses just before the break of dawn as he slipped out the window – caused some tension. 

Pirkis was given a very light breakfast and told not to let Byron tire on the trip over to Pembyrn – an unfair advantage that Jason’s horses did not have to travel to the track, Russ had insisted, but it could not be helped. 

It was… interesting… riding in the carriage with his parents and Russell. It was an open box, no room for Russ to ride upfront with Charlie, so he had to sit beside Paul and make very polite small talk with Father. Russell wore his best suit – a modern brown tweed and well-ironed white shirt. No tie, however. Mother pretended they did not exist, and every ten seconds, Russell would surreptitiously glance over Paul’s shoulder to check on Pirkis and Byron, who followed behind. The procession was slow, so as not to overexert the horse.

At least the weather was fair. The sun was not too bright, the track would be dry; there was a breeze. Paul supposed he could endure all this for one day. The great welcome they received at Pembyrn did nothing to relax him, however. The estate was gigantic. Of ridiculous, Gothic proportions, complete with gargoyles and cut glass and grounds extensive enough to rival the manor. Sir Isaacs even had gilded trees. 

Jason greeted them all with a broad grin and invited them in for refreshment. Father joked with him, Jenny went to kiss and hug Mother, and Russell leapt up as if the carriage were on fire and went immediately to his horse and rider. Paul begged off, pretending an interest in the horses, and went down to the stables to wish Russell luck. He was not prepared for the sight that greeted his eyes.

In the middle of the stable yard stood his lover – wrapped tightly around another man! The man was tall, blond hair wisping out under a flat cap, and he was somewhat thin – but more muscular, wiry, and angular than Paul. They had their arms around each other, rocking from foot to foot, laughing. Instinctively, Paul knew they had at least once upon a time been lovers. Pirkis looked on with a smile.

“Bloody bugger,” Russ said affectionately, quickly rubbing the other man’s hat. 

“Thought you’d dropped off the end of the fucking earth, ay?” the man replied, slapping Russell’s ribs. 

“Just about, mate.” And then Russ looked up and saw him – stilling and affixing a polite smile. “My lord.”

The man turned around to follow Russell’s gaze and, Lord, but he was handsome. Paul felt a twinge of anxiety to go along with the bucketful of jealousy welling inside him. Few people ever had the privilege of touching Russell Crowe, and fewer still of being intimate and bonded with him. Even Paul could not claim this relaxed simpatico. 

“Your lordship,” the man said, tipping his hat.

“Good day,” Paul managed, not letting sourness creep into his voice. “I’m Paul Bettany.” He would have extended a hand but it simply wasn’t done and this man seemed in no hurry to bridge the divide of their class.

“Yes, sir,” he said, just a tad snidely, as if Paul had his name emblazoned on his forehead. “I’m Sean Bean, Sir Isaacs’ horseman.”

“Oh.” So. They would be competing against each other today. Did Russell know this? Was that the reason for his obsession with winning? Putting an old lover’s nose out of joint? “You know each other from before, I take it?” He risked a meaningful glance at Russ. 

“Grew up together,” Russ explained. “This man taught me about horses. Convinced me to sign up. He also saved my life.”

“I decision I regret daily,” Sean murmured, hooking his arm around Russ’s neck for a moment. “Also, I told you to join the _Army_ , you git, not the bloody Navy. Not two days back on land and you were in need of rescuing.”

“I am so very glad you did,” Paul said with a sickeningly sweet smile. He was burning with curiosity over how Russell Crowe could possibly lose his land legs and be in dire need of rescue, but he wasn’t going to force intimacy by asking. “Father’s been overjoyed to have such a skilled horse-master on the manor. As have I,” he clarified. “Did you know you would be competing against one another?”

Russ scuffed the ground with his shoe. “I wouldn’t say _we’re_ competing, really, just the horses —”

“Come off it, you sod,” Sean said immediately. He turned to Paul. “We’d no idea that we both worked for your family. But now that we do, it doesn’t change a thing. Loser still has to buy the winner a pint.”

“If you’re so quick to part with your money, Bean.” Russ grinned. 

“As I recall, Rusty, you fall in your cups after the first few sips, so I shan’t be broke, I’m thinking.” Sean smiled wolfishly, and Paul couldn’t bear it. The wall around these two – the _years_. He suspected they were speaking in code. It actually hurt a little. Because the two of them… fit. Same class, same outlook, same job, even. Was Paul mad to begin an affair with the horse-master, for God’s sake?

“Well,” he said, “I shall let you to it. It’s half an hour ‘til the race and you should like to catch up. Mister Bean, it was a pleasure to meet you. I wish you every luck, knowing fully well that Byron is going to beat you soundly.”

Sean bowed and cracked him a small smile, then focused back on Russell. He didn’t wait to see if Russell’s eyes followed him – he simply headed back to the Gothic tomb of a home and endured endless rounds of backslapping and baby talk until the race was ready to begin. 

It was slightly overcast, which was good because that meant the sun wouldn’t be in the riders’ eyes. The family sat at two round tables set with tea on a small hill overlooking Jason’s track. Jason’s jockey was bigger and older than Pirkis, but he had a somewhat hallowed look about him. Paul could feel himself getting nervous.

Russell and Sean stood by the white outer fence on the curve of the track, mirror images of one another, right foot raised on the lowest beam, arms folded over the top, eyes glued to their riders. Father, being the patriarch and having a bit of the grand in him, gave a quick speech about chasing Mercury and harnessing the wind, then motioned for one of Jason’s servants to raise the start gun. 

Paul licked his lips, gaze traveling back and fourth between Pirkis – tucked in, focused, poised – and Russell – looking for all the world relaxed but Paul knew better. The shot cracked and both riders took off – Pirkis took the immediate lead but Windsong was right behind, lighter, faster, but less powerful than Byron – his jockey was heavier and not as accustomed to the newly purchased mount as Pirkis was to Byron – both pairs traded foremost positions for the first three laps until Paul was on the edge of his seat. Conversation at the tables came to a halt as the race headed to a fast close.

Round the forth bend, Russell and Sean began shouting directions to their riders – it was unclear whether either boy could hear them – but it was all very exciting. Byron was in front, driving fast, kicking up great clumps of earth – then Windsong, graceful, sleek, seeming to cut the air in two around him, long neck a hair’s breadth ahead of Byron’s. They rounded the last bend when something terrible happened.

Pirkis, in order to gain advantage, moved Byron to the inside of the track. But Windsong was so close to him – they were trapped in – and suddenly the other jockey fumbled the reins and Windsong was slamming into Byron, driving the powerful stallion into the fence for a moment. Pirkis was jerked and twisted round, hanging on for a moment, before falling over the fence and landing in a crumpled heap on his front. 

“Max!” Russell bellowed loud enough to fill the entire valley, jumping the outer fence and running after the lad so fast Paul gaped at his frantic speed. Sean was right behind him, pumping hard to catch up to Russell. 

Russ scrambled under the fence and quickly got down on his hands and knees over the boy. Paul hadn’t given it a thought – none of them had – they all ran to the scene of the accident. 

Pirkis was unconscious and looking very pale. Russell ran his hands over the boy, checking for open wounds, but there were none. He lifted the boy’s legs, but couldn’t tell if he’d been paralyzed. 

And then they saw it – the limp and odd angle of Max’s left arm. 

“Broken,” Sean assessed. 

“God damn it to hell,” Russ swore, furious. “Did you not know how to keep hold of your fucking reins!” he shouted to Sean’s rider, who had turned Windsong around to catch a glimpse. 

“It’s no one’s fault, Russ,” Sean said quietly. “Revenge later, now the boy.”

This seemed to quell Russell for long enough that his attention landed back on Max. He smoothed the boy’s hair back and stroked down his dirty face. “Have you a doctor?”

“Doctor Irons,” Jason said. “My personal physician.” He snapped at a servant. “Fetch him here at once. Mister Crowe? Anything you require, anything I have – it’s at your disposal.”

Russell didn’t say anything. He glanced at Paul and Paul could see it – real fear in the older man’s eyes. “Let’s hope he doesn’t have to lose it.”

Gingerly, Russell lifted the boy up into his arms – Paul rushed forward to cradle Max’s head, shushing him when he moaned – and they carried him as far as the house. “Might he have a servant’s bed?” Russell asked quietly. 

“I insist he take mine,” Jenny said. Mother opened her mouth but was silenced with a single look from Jenny. “Follow me, Mister Crowe.” She led them all up to her bedroom – light green satin curtains and sheets on her canopy bed. She pulled them back and they all watched as Russell carefully laid Max down. Jennifer took off his muddy shoes.

The boy whimpered and Russ sat down on the bed, petting him. “It’s all right, little sparrow. I’m right here. Right here now.” Paul moved to the other side and covered the boy with blankets.

Several minutes ticked by and no one said a thing. Russ couldn’t take his eyes off of Max. Neither could Sean.

“How far away is Doctor Irons?” Paul eventually asked. 

Jason frowned. “He’s in town. My servant should deliver him in fifteen minutes, if he’s at his offices. A little more, if on call.”

“Would it help if I rode?” Russell asked anxiously. “I could give him the horse to return.” 

“That won’t be necessary,” a gorgeous voice said from the hallway. “It is quite fortunate that I was found along the road.” A man with silver-grey hair and stunning eyes entered the bedroom, handing his coat to Jason with a charming lack of respect, and nodding to Jenny with a smile. That done, he went right over to the bed and pried Russell back to get a good look. “Ah, this is the lad with the broken arm?”

“Yes,” Jason said. “Everyone, you know Doctor Jeremy Irons.” 

“How do you do,” Dr. Irons said, “now get out.”

“What?” Mother bristled. 

“I need to make an assessment and I need to do it in private. No place for ladies,” he looked over at Russell, “or concerned fathers. So out. All of you.”

Shocked, everyone but Russ and Paul began heading for the door. 

“I’m not leaving him,” Russell _growled_. 

“Nor am I,” Paul said, going over to Russell and tugging on his elbow. “But we will move back to give you some room while you conduct your examination, Doctor.”

Dr. Irons swept them with his gaze briefly and nodded. “Very well. Extra pair of steady hands wouldn’t go amiss. But the rest of you – out.”

The family and Sean left and Paul and Russ watched Dr. Irons root around in his bag for scissors and various other odd looking instruments. He cut the boy’s sleeve open and ran his fingers down the forearm. Max whimpered and Russ stepped forward. 

“A nasty break.” Dr. Irons rubbed his thumb over his lip. 

“Will he lose it?” Russ asked.

“No. Little chance of infection since we’re dealing with it so quickly.” Dr. Irons pulled back the blankets. “I have some medicine he’ll need to take every day. How’s the rest of him.”

“Seemed fine,” Paul piped up. “Probably bruised.” 

“I dare say.” Dr. Irons nodded. “Let us hope not internally. I’m going to have to set this bone.”

Russell stiffened. “Better do it now, while he’s out.”

Paul didn’t really know what setting a bone entailed but judging from Russ’s face it wasn’t pleasant. “Don’t you have any ether, Doctor Irons?”

“Of course I do,” the man said, holding Max’s elbow in one hand and wrist in the other. “But I’m not about to use it on an unconscious young boy.” A jerk – tight, efficient, cruel – and a horrifying snapping sound – the boy’s arm was set. 

Max gasped out an inhuman sound of suffering and Russ was across the room in an instant, petting his hair. “I’m here, lad, right here. Bear up, now.”

Max’s eyes fluttered. Paul thought he was going to be ill. 

“Well done,” Dr. Irons said. “A brave patient. Now we must bind it with a splint, make a sort of cast, and tie it close to the body. I don’t want him re-breaking it in his sleep. Help me move the pillows.” 

The three of them worked together until Pirkis was set, bound, splinted, tied, boosted upright and given something for the pain. Then Dr. Irons took a break, putting his instruments back in his bag. 

“It’s late. I shall go downstairs and tell the family that the lad will be all right.” Paul looked at the elder gentlemen and knew instantly that he liked him. Worshipped him, even, for what he did today.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Russell said, real gratitude in his voice. 

“Yes, thank you, Doctor Irons,” Paul said, walking the man to the door. The sun was setting behind heavy clouds and he wanted to see about bringing some food and water up to Russ – no way the man would leave the child’s side. 

“Russ?” Max whispered. They all paused and turned to the bed. 

Russell petted the boy’s head with such tender affection. “I’m here.”

“I’m sorry I lost the race.” A tiny, broken voice. 

Paul Bettany had _never_ seen a grown man look so shattered for that single instant before Russ pulled himself together. “You didn’t, son. You didn’t lose. You made me very proud.” This was said in a husky whisper. 

“Oh. Good, then.” And then Max’s head lolled to the side and he was asleep. 

Paul went down with the doctor to speak with the family. A little later he returned with some fruit and cheese, forced Russell to eat a little, and spent the night with his lover, sitting by the bedside of Max Pirkis. Jenny checked in on them once, and he apologized for turning her out of her room, but she insisted she spent most nights with her husband anyway, which Paul did _not_ want to think about.

Russell had taken up permanent residence on of the large wingback chairs, his hand never more than a few inches from the boy. Paul watched him carefully for a few minutes, then went over to sit on the arm of the chair. He kissed Russ’s forehead and stroked his fingers through his hair. 

“Is he truly not your child?” Paul worked up his courage enough to ask.

“No,” Russ ground out. “He’s Sean’s.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: The Moon Compass**

“Sean’s son?” Paul asked, his whisper harsh and incredulous. Damning. 

Russell sighed. He was tired in his bones. “Yes.”

“How did all this come about?”

Normally Russ resented such attempts to foray into his privacy, but considering he’d been buggering Paul for the better part of four weeks, it seemed only fair to answer a few of the obvious questions. “It’s a long story.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Ah, the little prince was determined, then. He tugged Paul into his lap, breathed in the lily-water scent of him, nuzzled his throat. “Very well. Long and short of it. I was born in New Zealand and moved to Australia when I was six. My mother was ill, so father moved us back to England so she could be near her family. When she died – I was seven – father went to work on a ship and left me in Yorkshire with Bean’s family. I was one of four boys the Bean’s took in. He’s like a brother to me, the wanker.”

“Ah,” Paul said, sighing a little.

Russell grinned, chancing a look up into Paul’s face. “Were you jealous?”

Paul blushed but nodded. “I thought you were lovers.”

“We were,” Russ said plainly. “All that and a lot of other things. Sean and I had our share of women, and women we shared. Elizabeth was one of them.”

Paul frowned. “Pirkis’...?”

“Mother, yes.”

He could see the young man begin to work it out. “Then if you both… if you both had her… how do you know he’s not _your_ son?”

Russ smiled. “He is, in a way. But look at the hair. The nose. Even the chin. He’s Bean’s. I’m surprised he didn’t notice today – I was slightly worried it would be a shock to him, to be honest.”

“You…” Paul sputtered. “You mean he doesn’t _know_?”

Russell shook his head, the weariness and adrenaline let-down starting to bleed the will to talk out of him. “No. They’ve never met. Liza wanted it that way. Or else she would have writ to Bean and told him. But by then, we’d both joined up. I went to the sea, like my father. He went over the hills and far away. We didn’t know she was….”

“Max said he was on the street when you took him in. I assumed you didn’t know him before then.” Paul cradled his head.

“She never told _me_ , either. It was years later, I was walking along the docks when I saw this scrap of a boy eating out of a waste bin. I peered through the fog – Jesus, it was like looking at Sean when he was that age. The boy was… some older lads were sort of pimping him… making him pick pockets. He had to scrounge for food. I couldn’t bear it. I asked for his name. He thought I was a customer.”

“When he said Pirkis —”

“I knew.” Russ closed his eyes and focused on the thrum of pulse in Paul’s neck. “I convinced him to come with me. Had to pay the little bugger at first, too. Eventually he caught on that I didn’t want... that.” 

“Why didn’t you ever tell Bean?”

This would be perhaps too complicated to explain. Best he simplify it. “I… I couldn’t be sure where to write. I had just recovered from… a damned awful sea voyage if you must know,” Russ stopped to shudder, the fever and misery still in his heart, and then he cleared his throat, “and I wasn’t entirely in my right mind. I took the lad in without much thought; we stayed at various brothels and whatnot until I could find work. Odd jobs – carpentry, factory work, butchery, you know. And then one day I went to the track, pretended to be a horse-master, and some damned fool hired me to turn his glue pot into a racer. I did. Enough wins, people started paying notice. I made enough money to keep Max out of the factories and did my best to train him. Then I met your father, and the rest, you know.” He was exhausted. 

“My poor, dear one,” Paul said softly, kissing him. 

“I hate that, you know,” Russ informed him. Not harshly, but meaningfully. “I am not poor. I am not to be pitied. You know nothing of suffering or hard work, little prince. So I am sure to you, the horrors you conjure in your mind’s eye quite rival the reality. Yes, it was dirty, and cold, and heartless. But there were happy times too. And I’ve never once in my life been helpless. I don’t even begin to comprehend helplessness.”

“I was referring to the boy.” Paul began unbuttoning his collar and rubbing his neck. It felt damned good. “You pass yourself off quite well – you’ve an educated way of speaking.”

“I’m a very good mimic.” Russ ran his hands up and down Paul’s soft sleeve. 

“It’s your gruff, abrupt nature that gives you away. You could pass for a gentleman otherwise.”

Russ choked out a laugh. “I’ve no desire to.” He looked over at Pirkis. “I’ve no desire to own land – just to work it. I don’t want money – just the freedom that comes with it. No strings, no ties. Never in any place for very long.”

“Gypsy blood,” Paul murmured, so sad. 

Russ didn’t know how to handle that, didn’t know what to say to put things to rights, for he could only speak truth and that _was_ the truth, so instead, he said nothing at all, and kissed Paul. These kisses were gentle, the press and rub of lips, quiet and consoling. Paul’s slender fingers stroked over his cheeks and Russ surrendered to him – relaxed back into the chair and fought to stay awake long enough to give Paul his fill. 

They fell asleep like that; Paul curled up around him, he, laying back in the large chair. He woke instantly when someone opened the door at dawn – but Paul was sluggish and it was quite obvious they’d been sleeping together. 

“I do beg your pardon,” Dr. Irons said, “but not really, because I’m here to check on my patient.” The older man blithely moved past them, as if finding two men curled up together was the most natural thing in creation, and went to check on Pirkis. “Little less pale, but he’s dehydrated. He’ll wake up today and need to drink, and then not want to, because relieving himself will be painful. But you must make him drink,” he said, sliding a glance at Russell. “Three tall glasses a day, at the very least.”

Russ was standing by this point, Paul now lurking in the corner, fussing over imaginary wrinkles in his clothes. He nodded. “I will.”

“And he must take this, to keep away infection.” Dr. Irons held out a glass bottle filled with lavender tincture. “Ten drops in each glass of water. Three glasses a day. At least.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll see it done.” Russ was in awe of doctors – most of them were butchers, but this man, clearly, was a confident physician. He respected confidence. “Thank you.”

“Not at all.” A kind smile. The body, the face, the gentle yet firm nature – and that voice – Dr. Irons reminded him a little of Paul, if Paul had not been cowed by his family so early in life. “I understand this is not the first time an accident has occurred of this nature. Your family is quite upset,” he said to Paul.

“Yes, I’d imagine so,” Paul murmured. 

It dawned on Russell then that Max was effectively taken out of any races for the rest of the summer, and furthermore, considering Lord Bettany’s past, their racing days may be over. Which meant he’d outlived his usefulness. Certainly he could find other employment, but... but Paul? He’d not get to see Paul again.

“Do you think your father will discontinue racing then?” He kept his tone neutral, but Dr. Irons probably wasn’t fooled. 

“I shall see to it he won’t. Accidents happen, yes. That hardly means one should give up altogether.” Paul smiled softly at him. “I won’t see you sacked.”

Russ nodded. Just then, Max woke up. “Lad?”

“Hm,” the boy whimpered. Like a spike right into Russ’s heart. He _hated_ watching Max suffer. Hated the haunted look it produced in the child’s eyes.

“Was I bad?” the boy asked, then opened his eyes and came fully awake.

“Max?” Russ asked, worried.

“Hello,” Dr. Irons said. “I’m Jeremy. I’m looking after you. I imagine you’re feeling rather awful at the moment.” The doctor smiled and pressed the heel of his palm to Max’s forehead. “Do you feel warm?”

“Cold, sir,” Max whispered. 

“In summer? Under satin blankets?” Russ wondered aloud. 

“It’s normal when the body suffers this type of trauma. Shock.” Dr. Irons tightened the strings on Pirkis’ makeshift sling. “That’s not to come off without me present. You won’t be able to move or wash for a few weeks. Perhaps your father might help you with cleaning up, but no water near this arm, understand?”

Max frowned. “Father?”

Russ stepped forward. “The boy is my ward, sir.” And he would say nothing more because it wasn’t anybody’s business. 

“Oh. Forgive me, I’d assumed.” Dr. Irons scarcely looked up. “Not that it matters, since he is the child of your heart.” This was murmured low as the doctor mixed the tincture. “Max? Max, lad, wake up. Here. Drink this.”

Russ watched intently as Pirkis did his best to drink – he was clearly thirsty but obviously the medicine didn’t taste very pleasant – and then the boy’s eyelashes began fluttering again. 

“Rest while you can. I’ll give you something for the pain.” Dr. Irons went back into his bag of tricks and pulled out a very large needle, which he stuck into Max’s side. 

“Crikey,” the boy gasped. 

“Crikey indeed. But it will make you feel better.” Dr. Irons ruffled Max’s hair affectionately, then checked his pulse. “In a few weeks, you’ll have a fascinating tale of woe for all your friends, but in the meantime I intend to keep you drugged.”

“All... my friends...” Max struggled to say against the lull of Dr. Irons’ injection, “are in... this room.” And then he was out.

Russ bit at his knuckles. “When can he be moved, Doctor? Surely he can’t stay in Lady Isaacs’ room.”

“Ideally he’d not move until the bones begin to mesh again. I would say two weeks.”

“To another room, at least?” Russell demanded. Staying here highlighted the accident to the Bettany family and he much preferred that the lad recover out of view. 

Dr. Irons thinned his lips. “One of the servant’s rooms you mean? Jason certainly has enough rooms in this hall.” 

“Yes, sir, that’d be better I think.” Russ shifted his weight. 

“I shall go ask Jason where he might be moved, love,” Paul whispered. Russ barely concealed his wince at how quickly Dr. Irons took that little endearment in. 

“Thank you, my lord.”

Paul left quickly and he was left alone to stare squarely at Dr. Irons. The older man said nothing, but Russ could tell that he’d guessed. And he wasn’t about to admit or deny a thing; clearly, Dr. Irons guessed that as well.

To break the silence, Dr. Irons said, “The drug has taken hold. Moving him won't hurt. But you must be so careful not to jar him at all, or it will break again. Re-breaks are extremely hard to set right again and he might always have a deformed arm.”

Russ nodded. “I’ll take care.”

“I sensed that you might.” Dr. Irons smiled.

Paul returned, looking a little disheveled and flushed – he must have run. “In the basement, there are extra adjoining rooms that the grooms do not occupy. You can set him there and have a room of your own until he’s well enough to return home.”

“Excellent,” Russ said. 

“Let’s go now, then,” Dr. Irons agreed, collecting up his things. 

Paul peeled back the covers and Dr. Irons opened the door while Russell tenderly – so carefully – hooked his arms around Max’s neck and knees, lifting him up so that his arm rested close to his small chest. Then he began the laborious process of slowly carrying the lad down three flights of narrow stairs. 

Paul and Dr. Irons helped along the way and soon they had the lad in between scratchy, starched sheets and a thick wool blanket. The walls of the servants’ rooms were stark white, clean, barren. Comforting. All that satin and fringe and fine crystal of Lady Isaacs’ room made Russell nervous to breathe. “There.” Paul tucked the boy up tight.

“Well done,” Dr. Irons said with a smile, heading for the door. “I shall return every day to check on his progress and Jason will know how to find me should you need me at any time.” He bowed. Russ didn’t even want to bring up the subject of payment – surely Lord Bettany or Sir Isaacs would cover the cost since it was their damned responsibility in the first place. “Oh! Before I forget...” He plucked a small vial from his bag and handed it to Russ.

“What’s this?”

“Oil.” Dr. Irons closed his bag with a snap. 

He looked at Max. “What’s it for?”

A long, studied look from the doctor, who then glanced meaningfully at Paul. “I had sensed it might come in handy. Ta.” And with a flourish, the good doctor was out the door and down the hall before Russ could recover. 

Paul stood there, slack-jawed. It was endearing. “Good Lord. He figured it out.”

“Aye,” Russ agreed. “Might have been when you called me love, love.” He winked.

“Oh blast.” Paul winced. “I’m sorry. I’ll take better care.”

“I doubt Doctor Irons cares very much.” He held up the vial. “Damned considerate, if you ask me.” He crossed the narrow room to be close to Paul.

“I like him, very much. Much more than my doctors.”

Russ raised one eyebrow. “Then perhaps you might suggest to your parents they employ him? For I am certain there is nothing at all really wrong with you.” He whispered into Paul’s ear, “And I’ve performed a very thorough examination.”

Paul shivered. “Are you certain? There’s nothing you missed?”

A slow smile from his little prince. “You’re right. I’d be remiss to not check again.” His hands came up to Paul’s waistcoat at the same moment Paul’s lips pressed to the corner of his mouth. 

With Russell assured that Max was in the best of care, he was able to take Paul to the adjoining room and make love to him, slowly, as he’d been wont to do for the past several days. Outside, the brush of Autumn had turned some leaves yellow – though it was only August. England was back to its normal temperature, the heat wave having passed. 

Paul dragged him onto the small cot-bed and ran the tip of his nose over Russell’s face. “What sort of lover was Bean?”

Russell held in a sigh. Paul was not going to let this go. “Frantic. Passionate. You might call him terse. But he always made sure I felt good.”

Paul nodded. “He’s very handsome.”

Russ looked at him. “I think you’re making it out to be more romantic than it was. We were lads. We fucked up against walls, we fucked with women between us or not, and the next day we worked alongside each other, getting each other into trouble and out again. I meant it when I said he’s more like a brother to me. Besides, it’s been well over than ten years.”

Paul bit his lip as Russell took him in hand. “But… surely you must love him… oh, yes, yes… any fool can see you both care – God!”

“What’s the burning interest in Bean really all about? Unless my little prince has half a notion to imagine himself between the two of us?” Russ noted the way Paul’s eyes rolled back in his head. He leaned low and whispered into the young man’s ear, “Perhaps it’s not enough to have one brute rut between your legs? Would you want me to ask him to join us?” He licked Paul’s neck, enjoying the way the young lord arched and sobbed. “Shall we both take our turns fucking you?”

Paul jerked and grabbed his arse, forcing Russell to slam their hips together repeatedly. “No... pretty... as the thought... is...” Paul panted. “I just want you.” And then he surged up for a kiss. 

Inwardly, Russ smiled. No, beamed. Paul wanted only him. How bloody marvelous. It was wonderful, because Russell had no intention of sharing him, ever. Still, it _was_ a pretty picture. “Are you certain? You wouldn’t want two pairs of calloused hands on you? Owning you? Hm? Two heavy pricks anxious to get in you?” Russ smiled. “And his prick _is_ impressive, Paul.”

The younger man groaned and started humping his leg. “You insist... on... provoking me....”

“You flush a perfect shade of pink,” Russ explained. They kissed, Russ sure to command Paul’s mouth with his tongue, his teeth, driving them to the very edge of sanity. 

Paul reached out to the bed stand and thrust Dr. Irons’ vial into Russ’s hand. Then he turned over, shuffled his trousers down and _waved_ his arse in the air. Russell didn’t have to be told twice. He opened the bottle – a sweet scent, lemongrass – and coated his aching cock. Then he prepared Paul as best he could. The lad was very insistent.

“Now; now, damn it.”

Russ angled Paul’s hips up and slid home, the oil magnificent, slicking the tight channel perfectly, his prick coated in wet heat. He had to confess, he rutted mindlessly then, slamming in and out of Paul like an animal eager to mark his mate – he pulled and pushed at Paul, both of them shaking and straining as he drove his cock again and again into Paul’s flesh.

The younger man keened, but Russ didn’t have the will to silence him, instead gripping the headboard and snapping his hips forward faster, rolling a bit, driving himself home. “Touch yourself,” he commanded in his most lethal voice. “That’s it, like that.”

He could see and feel Paul’s arm shake back and forth as the younger man jerked his prick and moaned. The _sounds_ coming from him – muted, but lusty, utterly debauched – his little prince was certainly enjoying his fucking. Russ had to wonder at the new intensity of it. “Still sure you don’t want both of us, Paul? Maybe Sean’s cock in your mouth? Maybe your prick in his?”

“Augh—hm,” Paul grunted, fisting his cock harshly. Russ pounded and pounded until he thought the bed might break, and then he came, deep inside Paul. 

“Christ. Turn over. Let me watch.”

Paul obeyed quickly, rolling on his side, working his length at a frantic pace. Russell leaned down and smothered the head of Paul’s dick with the flat of his tongue, giving him something warm and wet and soft to rub against, and then he could taste the salty fluid of Paul’s seed spraying into his open mouth. 

“Fucking hell!” Paul whispered, pulling on his cock for the last few tugs. 

“God bless Doctor Irons,” he said, snuggling into the fold between Paul’s neck and shoulder, letting himself be held as the frantic drum of Paul’s heartbeat slowed against his chest. 

“Someone ought to give that man a medal.”

“Someone did,” Sean Bean said from the doorway. 

“Fuck,” Russ swore, flipping over to shield Paul as best he could. “What the hell, mate?”

“Doctor Irons was knighted for his medicines, you know. He’s particularly renowned for his potions. Said to work wonders.” Sean grinned and folded his arms. “So, shagging the boss’s son?”

“Sod off,” Russ said. He could feel the heat of Paul’s blush spread behind his back. “How long have you been there?”

Sean’s eyes twinkled. “Long enough. Good thing I had enough sense to close the outer door or half the staff would be in here wondering why you’re murdering poor Lord Bettany’s only son.”

“Christ,” Paul said. 

“What? You keeping the child drugged so mum and dad can have a toss, is that the plan then?” Bean’s smile was almost cruel, except it looked just a tad conspiratorial. “Tsk tsk, Russell.”

“I’m not going to have to worry about blackmail, am I, Bean?” Russ asked gruffly. He felt like a dog for asking, but it was certainly going to be foremost on Paul’s mind. 

Sean tipped his head back and laughed. “Not from me, mate. There’s nothing you’ve got that I want. Not even you, my lord. I suppose it’s a good thing I’m not greedy.” The blond man walked over to the bed and peered around Russ’s shoulder. “God, you are pretty enough, though.” 

Russ bit back a growl. _His_ lover — _not_ sharing.

Paul cleared his throat. “I would very much appreciate your... discretion.” 

Bean shot Russ a look. “Oh it’s discretion you’re wanting? Perhaps I ought to settle on a price, after all.” Russ watched him lean forward, until the only thing separating Sean from Paul was Russ himself. “One kiss, then, and we call it even?”

This _did_ merit a growl from Russell, but Sean just cuffed his ear. “Silence, you mongrel. Let the lad make up his own mind. What say you, my lord?”

Paul bit his lip. “You will not say anything if I kiss you? That’s all, just a kiss?”

“I’ll not breathe a word.” Damn it all if Bean wasn’t smirking. 

Paul looked down. “Then... then I shall... If... if Russell agrees to it.”

Neither Russ nor Sean could keep the surprise from their faces. The meek and obedient way Paul deferred judgment to him – Jesus, it went straight to his cock. Russ took a long breath and moved slightly away, leaving Paul vulnerable somewhat. 

Secretly, Russ wanted Sean to see what he was missing – to know what Russ had. “One kiss. Just one.” 

“There’s a good lad,” Sean murmured, winking. He slinked over the bed, invading Paul’s space but not so much that Russell couldn’t see every minute detail – Paul’s eyes looked like they would pop out of their sockets, which was endearing, God’s teeth – and then Sean attacked. Just as Russell suspected he would – firm jaw and slicing tongue and heat and force and a bright blaze – Paul was pressed back to the pillows while Sean plundered his mouth. It went on for several agonizing seconds until Russ didn’t know whether to beg Sean to fuck Paul or to just bash Sean’s skull in for daring to touch what was his. Only their childhood friendship kept the latter impulse at bay. 

Sean pulled away and swore. “Damnation, Russell. You lucky son of a bitch.” He petted Paul’s hair back for a moment. “My sweet thing.”

“Russ’s,” Paul whispered, though he looked like he’d want nothing more than for Bean to clamber onto the small bed with them and have his way. 

Sean glared at him now. “You _lucky_ son of bitch.”

Russ grinned and playfully boxed Sean upside the head. “Leave my mother out of this.”

Sean straightened, frowning a bit. “Just as well. I’ve got a bit on the side myself that wouldn’t take kindly to me finding my way into this bed.”

“Oh really? Possessive doesn’t sound like your type. Is she pretty?” They always were, Russ thought.

“ _He_ is. We met in Arabia, actually. Another race.”

“Your lover is an Arab?” Paul asked incredulously. 

“No, mate,” Sean said. “He was in Arabia for the race. He’s actually American.”

“Aw, Christ,” Russ said. “The bottom of the barrel?”

Sean hit him square in the chest and didn’t it hurt? Why, yes, yes it did. “His name’s Viggo.”

“Mortensen?” Russ wondered. “You’re kidding. Figures you’d go and snag yourself a celebrity.”

“Who is Viggo Mortensen?” Paul asked, hiding demurely behind Russell again. 

Sean’s chest puffed out. “One of the greatest horsemen alive. He’s off again on another race. Sir Isaacs is his patron.”

“I had no idea Sir Isaacs knew so many damned people.” Russ watched Paul bite his lip. One thing he had to give his lover – Paul Bettany was sincere and transparent. Which Russ found, predictably, endearing. 

“Isaacs has his fingers in a lot of pies, my lord.” Sean pretended to tip his hat. “Speaking of pies, it’s almost dinner, won’t you be missed?”

“Oh, blast!” Paul said, pushing Russell up and scrambling out of bed. 

Russ did not miss the cheeky grin on Sean’s face as he watched Paul dash about the room – half-naked – for the rest of this clothes. “Oy. Eyes front.”

And then Bean was looking at him – something childish, and then sad and a little desperate – making Russ reach out and clasp hands with him briefly. A time gone by, when his compass pointed to any adventure on the globe and their ambitions knew no bounds. A time long past, for now he cared for Sean’s child instead of for Sean, and loved a man so far out of his class it might just have well have been the moon he was reaching for. And judging by the sad look, Sean knew that.

Paul hopped around until he was fully dressed, deftly hooking up his buttons with those long musician’s fingers. “I have to go; my family will start to inquire otherwise.”

“For certain,” Russell mumbled, letting the sheets fold lazily about him. 

“You’ll be all right? With Max, I mean?” Paul blinked. 

“Yes, love, hurry on now.” Russ waved him away. 

Paul hesitated, looking at Bean – good Lord, was that a warning in the little prince’s eye? And then a nod to Russ. “I’ll come back later tonight if I can manage.”

“I’ll be here.”

Paul stopped short again, “Should I... get you...?”

“I’ll see to it he and the boy get something to eat,” Bean reassured. 

“Thank you,” Paul said sincerely. Another moment and he quickly crossed the room to kiss Russell -- _possessively_ \-- and then he was out the door.

He looked over at Sean. 

Sean whistled through his teeth. “You like playing with fire, mate.”

“Learned that from you.” He watched as Sean walked forward, sat down side by side with him on the bed. “What brought you down here?”

“I dunno. Felt bad, I suppose. About the boy, I mean.” Sean looked down at his hands folded in his lap. 

Russ weighed his options. “His name is... Max Pirkis.”

Sean’s head snapped up. “Pir...? Liza?”

Russ nodded. “I took him in after she passed on.”

This took several minutes to sink in – Sean realizing his first love was dead, that she’d had a child, that the child was now with Russell – and then they came to the crux of the matter. “Is he yours?”

He smiled gently. “He is now. My ward, my boy. I’m doing the best I can. Bettany is even teaching him Latin.”

“Christ.” Sean smiled but it didn’t hold. “He doesn’t look much like you.”

Was Sean ready to handle this? Russ wasn’t going to press. He looked forward toward the other room where the boy lay unconscious. “He’s got a lot of his mother in him.”

“No,” Sean said, “he hasn't. I would have seen it immediately.”

Sean’s powers of observation utterly failed him on this one, Russ thought. “It doesn’t matter. He’s my responsibility now, and he’s been no trouble at all. He’s a very good lad. And his arm will mend, so stop your fretting.” He waited, wondering how to put it so as not to appear too soft. “Your rider doing all right after my harsh words, I hope?”

“Russell,” Sean whispered. A beat, and there was no avoiding it – they came together as one and kissed. Soft, sad, a kiss of mourning and filled with so much history. Then Sean pulled away. “I’ll go… get you something to eat. The lad needs to drink, Doctor Irons was sure to tell everyone that.”

Russ gripped Sean’s hair and pulled him forward, kissing his forehead. Then he let go. “My little lord is jealous of you, did you know that?”

“Oh?” Sean asked, rising to his feet. “My handsome good looks or illustrious station in life?”

“Our history together.” 

Sean cocked his head to the side. “Lucky son of a bitch, to have someone want you that bad. You’re a terrible bore, when you’re not being a terrible boar, that is.”

Russell shook his head and got up, righting his clothing. Suddenly Sean stepped into his space and held him close. “Do keep an eye on him, Russ. There are many predators for a young boy kept here at Pembyrn.”

He stepped back a bit, checking Sean’s sincerity. Did he mean Sir Isaacs or one of the servants? “But they are all family here.”

Sean smirked but let it drop. “Just keep an eye out, is all I’m saying. I’ll bring you some stew and bread. There’s ale?”

“I’ll take it. Bring some for yourself, you can join us.”

“Can’t. We observe strict protocol here, mate. Have to take my place at the table in half an hour. But Paul is coming by later, isn’t he?” Sean teased. “So you won’t have too long to be lonely.”

“Food, you ass.”

“Right-o.”

~*~

After Russ had eaten, he woke Max long enough to get the boy to drink his medicine and sip some broth. He washed the lad with a cool rag and made sure the sling was properly fastened. Max looked miserable – for he was surely in a great deal of pain – but he never complained. 

Sean didn’t know what he was missing.

He gave the lad some more pills to help with dulling the ache and then read to him – the Bible was the only book in the servant’s quarters – until he fell asleep. When Russ was certain he’d be down for a while, he peeked his head out of the room. He didn’t like leaving Max alone for even a moment, but he was curious about what Sean had said. If he could just get a glimpse of Paul, he could reassure himself….

Like a thief casing the manor, Russ quickly wove his way around the basement and first floor of the house – the family was by the fire in the drawing room, but Paul and Jason were missing. Which had the hair on the back of Russ’s neck up. 

He wandered past the kitchen – narrowly escaping discovery by the servants – and went down a long hall where he could make out the murmur of voices. He crept along until he saw Sir Isaacs and Paul in the wine nook – the older man had Paul backed up along a rack of fine wine and ciders. 

“Surely you will stay while the boy recovers,” Isaacs murmured, reaching behind Paul for a bottle. “And you must fill the house with your music and let me tempt you with ridiculously expensive, aged spirit.”

Paul looked like a worm on a hook. He actually _squirmed_. “It’s not up to me —”

“Tosh. We’re family. Of course you will stay.” Isaacs was dangerously close now. “Surely there is some way that I can convince you it’s worth your while.”

“Jason, really, my sister —”

_Jason_ put his hand up to cover Paul’s mouth, silencing him, blocking the younger man from Russell’s sight. “Hush, little one. Hush now.” That hand traveled down Paul’s chest and something inside Russell snapped.

“My Lord Bettany,” he bellowed, rushing into the room like he had just happened upon it. 

Isaacs whirled around at the intrusion. “What the devil?”

“Forgive me, Sir Isaacs. I was looking for – ah, your lordship. Forgive me,” Russell bowed. “Doctor Irons said he taught you how to mix the medicines for young Pirkis, and it’s past his time for his next dose. Would you be so good as to come with me?”

Paul looked like he would sag against the wall. “Certainly, Mister Crowe. I shall come right away.”

“Yes,” Jason said, all manners. “Naturally. To the poor thing’s bedside, Paulie. But don’t stay too long, we’d all hoped you would play on my grand piano.”

“I’ll see to the patient, Jason, and then I might return,” Paul said, striding forward to Russell like he was walking out of a dark tunnel. 

Russ fixed Isaacs with a quick glance and then spun on his heel and followed after Paul. By the time they’d gotten down to the basement hallway, Paul’s cold hand was clasped in his, and he could feel the lad shake. He pushed Paul into the room – Max stirred but didn’t awaken – and he steered the lord into their adjoining room. 

“What the hell was that?” Russell asked, already knowing the answer. Predators at Pembyrn, indeed.

“He’s been after me since they returned from honeymoon. I thought I was just misinterpreting his overtures as friendliness.”

Paul melted into his arms, sighing deeply. Russ ran his hands through the blond hair. “No mistaking tonight.” He pulled Paul close. “Stay with me. Forget your family, and stay tonight. I don’t like the idea of you even sleeping on the same floor as him.”

“All right,” Paul whispered, kissing his neck. “You’re very good at convincing me.”

“If I were a wishing man, I’d wish we had our instruments here. Playing always relaxes me,” Russ murmured. 

“That would wake Max. Did you… did you really need help with the tincture?”

“No, of course not. It was the only excuse that came to mind.” 

“Ah. But what had you looking for me in the first place? Did you miss me?”

“Bean,” Russ said abruptly. “He mentioned I might want to keep an eye on you in the house and I can see now he was right.” 

“God bless Bean, then.” Paul wrapped around him. “Oh love, I just want to be with you tonight. Take me to bed?”

And Russell obliged – one ear always trained for Max in the night – the rest of him focused on Paul, on bringing Paul pleasure, on making Paul safe. Both of his boys were in danger – though the peril may be slight – and it put him on edge. He slept lightly that night, waking several times to check on Max and Paul, to remind himself that they were both here, and both going to be very well cared for. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: The Mozart Man**

Paul feigned illness in order to return to the manor with his parents. Unfortunately, Jason would not hear of his leaving until Dr. Irons checked him over. So Paul was kept in his bedroom – the plush red velvet cushions strewn about the room and ornate gold fabrics were suffocating, the shutters drawn up tight – he waited uncomfortably until Dr. Irons was finished checking in on Max. Then, it was his turn.

He sat there silently while the man entered the room, threw open the windows to let in the sun, and then peeled back his covers with no nod to modesty whatsoever. He stayed quiet while Dr. Irons palpated his throat, checked his temperature, and examined his eyes.

“Hm,” Dr. Irons said. “So why are you pretending to be ill, then?”

Paul coughed. “Um....”

“Had a rough night of it?” Dr. Irons cocked an eyebrow. 

He sighed. Might as well come out and say it, for Jeremy Irons was no fool. “I would really appreciate it if I was allowed to return home. Frankly, Sir Isaacs makes me... uncomfortable.”

Dr. Irons’ lips twitched. “Yes,” he murmured. “And what of your friend, Mister Crowe?”

“I dare say nothing makes Mister Crowe uncomfortable, Doctor.”

“Mm.” Dr. Irons started rolling up Paul’s sleeve. “All right. So let’s give you something that will get you home but keep you from too much fuss.” He brought out a bleeder and patted Paul’s inner elbow – then stopped. “How many times in your life have you been bled?”

“Oh, let’s see. Once or twice a month, at least.” 

Dr. Irons looked horrified. “Are you parents _trying_ to kill you?”

“Sir?” Paul frowned. 

“Do you ever feel weak? Dizzy? Hot flushes? Cold?”

“Well, yes, sometimes. That is why they call for the doctors.”

“Those ruddy _doctors_ are what’s making you ill! I had thought to bleed you so that you might look pale enough to go home – at this point I’m ready to instruct your family never to bleed you again!”

“I’m all right, Doctor Irons,” Paul reassured, petting the man’s forearm. He looked so upset.

“No, dear lad, you’re not. You’ve been horribly mismanaged. Twice a month. For how long? This past year?”

Paul winced. “Since I was eight... off and on —” He stopped when Dr. Irons rose from the bed and began pacing. “Sometimes a month or two would pass without anything at all, and they never take very much, just a saucer-full, really….”

“I’ve such an urge to knock heads together!” Dr. Irons growled. “From here on out, you are old enough to manage your own care. Hire me. Hire me right now; I come at a ridiculously modest price. Hire me, and I’ll have you feeling much, much better at the end of two months. Do not, whatever you do, let anyone bleed you or give you bloody folk tonics or,” he stopped, catching his breath, “please tell me you’ve never been put in ice water and then hot?”

Paul shrugged helplessly. Was he not supposed to tell?

“God!” Dr. Irons bellowed. He strode to the door, opened it with a bang and Paul had to get out of bed because it was all very alarming. The good doctor had found his mother and Jenny sitting with Jason in the sewing room, and he could hear the shouting from there. 

“What the blue blazes are you thinking, having the lad bled so damned often! The stuff is not an endless fountain of red, I tell you! There _is_ , in fact, a limit to what the body can produce, woman. No wonder he suffers fainting spells and dizziness with those damned country quacks looking after him! Good lord, Madam, have you taken leave of all sense? You’re damned lucky your son doesn’t _fall down dead_ where he stands today!” 

Paul entered the room on slightly wobbly legs to find Jenny clutching her heart, Jason’s eyes wide, and Mother – Mother looked like she would burst into tears at any moment. No one had _ever_ talked to Mother like that. 

“But... but...” Oh God, she started crying. “But we’ve given him the best care we can afford – a fortune! We’ve tried everything to make him well, I assure you, Doctor!”

“Well, stop.” Dr. Irons composed himself. “Stop everything, right now. No bleeding, no shock waters, no filtered diet. He’s to eat regularly, exercise daily -- _no brews_ \-- am I clear?”

Mother nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes, of course… I had only done what I could for him....”

Bleeding Christ, he couldn’t stand to see her cry. “Mother,” he said, entering the room.

“Oh, Paulie, oh my boy!” she wailed, getting up to hug him – something she’d not really done since the accident. “Oh Paulie!” she kept saying.

He patted her back. “There, there; there, there. I am going to be fine, Mother, just fine.” He looked over at Jenny – she couldn’t believe this display either. Their mother had not shed tears since James.

“Now, now, Lady Bettany, don’t excite yourself so,” Dr. Irons said, taking Mother by the elbows and helping her to the lounge chair. “We caught it in time, thank goodness. Sorry if I was harsh with you, Madam. I am passionately furious when I discover what half the medical profession is up to these days – messing about with witch’s potions and leeches and whatnot. Forgive me. Your son will get the very best of care, I assure you. I assure you he will be well.”

Once they’d had Mother settled down, she insisted they return home immediately. Father was summoned and spoke briefly with Jason about making arrangements for Russell and Max. Paul went to Jenny and drew her aside.

“Dearest, do something for me?”

“What is it, Paulie?”

“Please see that someone – a servant perhaps – take Russell Crowe his meals. He won’t leave the boy’s side; looks on him like a son, you see. I’ll depend on you to ensure they have plenty of food, bandages, water; whatever they may need when Doctor Irons is not about. Will you do that for me?”

Jennifer looked at him strangely. “Of course, dear.”

“Thank you.” He kissed her forehead.

“Are you feeling better?” She looked him up and down in his nightgown – in all the excitement he’d forgotten to feign illness.

“According to Doctor Irons, it’s a miracle I survived the last nineteen years. I think I shall be all right today.” 

“I will see to Mister Crowe and little Pirkis, brother. You look after yourself.”

Which was exactly what he was doing, he thought, as he looked at Jason. The man did not look thrilled. 

He didn’t have time to properly say goodbye to Russell – he stopped in long enough to give Pirkis the small book of Shakespeare’s sonnets that he always carried, something to whittle the hours away – and gave Russ’s hand a slight squeeze when they shook their farewells. Then he was in the carriage headed for home.

“What’s this business about Doctor Irons?” Father asked suddenly. His voice was like a rumble of thunder across the sky.

Paul let his mother answer. “He told me the treatments were what’s causing Paulie so much trouble, so we are to give him exercise and a normal diet.”

Lord Bettany tapped his cane on the floor a few times. “Damn it, Vanessa, I’ve been saying that for _years_ , but I never studied medicine so I guess it fell on deaf ears.”

“Yes, dear, you’re very clever,” Mother said dryly, and that effectively halted conversation for the rest of the way. When they pulled up to the drive, Paul smiled at Mr. Edgar – the only person he was ever truly happy to see at the manor. 

“You will want to rest, Paulie?” Mother asked. 

“Actually, Mother, I think I shall walk. The fresh air will clear my head, and Doctor Irons said it was a good idea.”

She looked like she wanted to protest, but a single sigh from Father, and she nodded her head. Paul turned to Mr. Edgar and asked if Charlie and Kenny couldn’t help with unloading the luggage. 

“They’re on their way, Master. I’ll only get the light things,” Mr. Edgar said, smiling. 

Content with that, Paul hopped down and headed straight for the woods. He walked briskly, the sun just now beginning its descending arc into the afternoon. Occasionally he touched the trees as he walked – making sure it wasn’t all a dream. Doctor Irons had handed him a freedom he’d not thought possible for so very long. And he was glad to be rid of Jason. But he did miss Russ, so much so that his feet carried him to the woodhouse. 

He let himself inside and spread out along the bed – mattress hard and familiar, sheets still smelling of Russ. Burrowing in, he sighed. He hoped Russ and Max would be all right for the next two weeks. He hoped Sean Bean was a man of his word and really _did_ have a famous horseman for a lover – because the thought of frantic tumbles between Russ and Sean would have been a delicious indulgence if not for the spike of molten jealousy it triggered in him. 

Sighing again, he reached under the bed and brought out his cello. It had collected a bit of dust over the week, but the case was dry and well kept. He sat on the bed and tuned it, then began to play something slow and sweet – Mozart’s ‘Requiem’ – pretending Russ’s violin accompanied him. He lost himself for several minutes in variations on the theme, just playing extemporaneously for a while. When the woodhouse door opened all of a sudden, it startled him and the bow scratched along the strings hideously. 

“Good heavens,” a tall, handsome man said from the doorway. “I’d no idea at all. I thought perhaps woodland pixies were having a ball in here.”

Paul blinked around the afternoon sun to make the man’s face out – brown, shiny hair, deep brown eyes, perfect skin. And tall, very tall. A total stranger to his eyes. “I... I beg your pardon?”

“No, it is for me to beg _your_ pardon, for I’ve stopped you from playing such a fine – if somewhat unconventional – interpretation of Mozart. Just lovely, really.” The man clapped his hands together once. “You must be… am I wrong in guessing one of the Bettanys?”

Paul stood. “Yes, sir. Paul Bettany.”

The man shook his hand eagerly. “How d’you do?” 

“Very well.” Paul smiled, deciding he liked this odd character. “And you... are?”

“Oh, heavens, yes!” The man tapped his forehead. “Forgive me; I sometimes forget people cannot hear my thoughts. Ha. Yes. Ah? I am Duke Rupert Everett, but all my friends call me Ev. You _must_ call me Ev or I shall be heartbroken, and on this, our first meeting. Tell me you haven’t the nature do to it to me, Lord Bettany?”

Paul grinned. It was like being in the room with an actor. Or a madman. “Yes, Ev, Ev is fine. Please call me Paul.”

“Excellent. Paul. Is this your woodhouse, Paul? Do you… play here often?” Rupert winced. “Dash it all if that doesn’t sound tawdry. Is it tawdry of me, do you think? Anyway, is it yours?”

He couldn’t keep the smile from his face now. “No. It belongs to the horse-master, a Mister Russell Crowe. But he won’t be on the manor for sometime, and since the space wasn’t in use....”

“I see, I see.” Rupert pushed back the right flap of his navy suit and rested his fist on the small of his back. “Well, you play... marvelously, I must say. I was taking a walk and I was drawn to it, do you know, it really was quite ethereal.”

“Oh.” Paul blushed a bit. “Thank you. But... But whatever brings you to our woods? You are not lost, are you... Ev?”

“I _like_ the way you say my name, that’s for certain. Yes, I confess, I _am_ rather lost. You see, I’ve only just taken over the manor next to yours – North Ember, you know.”

“You’ve bought the Jacobi manor?” Paul asked.

“Heavens, no, Paul, dear. I’m a gambler and haven’t anything like serious money to my name. I inherited it, you see. Derek was my great uncle. Him having no heirs of his own… Voila, I am your new neighbor.”

“Duke Jacobi is...?”

“Yes.” Rupert made a face that was nothing like that of a grieving relative. “Age. He was about a million years old, you know. I’m convinced the last few years the servants were just keeping him pickled. Ah, but now his house will be filled with life again. I’m going to throw a party, of course, for all the neighbors and you must say you’ll come for I haven’t met anyone else yet, and you like me, and if they see that you like me, they’re sure to like me, and I can’t have anyone not liking me so soon after inheriting, because then it will be utterly intolerable come time to fill up my winter dance card. Say you will, Paul, please?” Rupert gripped his forearm in mock-desperation and Paul felt like laughing out loud.

“I think it shall be very hard refusing you anything, your grace.” He bowed. “After all, what can be said against a man who likes Mozart?”

“Why, thank you, your lordship.” Rupert bowed and let his hand go. “Well, I shan’t keep you from your work. If you could just… point me toward… North Ember?”

“I’ll take you there myself, Ev,” Paul offered. “I know these woods better than anyone. I grew up playing in them.” Until the accident, he thought, but no sense in bringing up something so weighty with such a light-hearted new acquaintance. 

“Delightful!” Rupert crowed, hooking his arm around Paul’s. “Very kind of you, indeed.” 

They walked arm-in-arm through the woods – Paul felt like he knew this gentleman from forever ago, though he couldn’t put his finger on why. Rupert was such a bumbling, mad, good-natured fellow. Paul couldn’t sense an agenda hidden anywhere within him, and that was very rare in their class. What’s more, Rupert was very free and affectionate, daring, even, and Paul admired that in him. He was… well, he was a very bright flame against the grey of the manor. 

They reached North Ember in less than half an hour – the quarry stone of the building giving it a warm, pale yellow glow. “Here you are, safe and sound and home at last.” Paul smiled.

“You _must_ come to dinner. No, I insist, after all that. How can you not be famished? I am ravenous. You must eat. I have excellent wine, do you know. Come, come, Paul Bettany, my new best friend, I shan’t hear refusals, my ears are quite deaf to them, come,” Rupert said, dragging Paul up the stairs and into the foyer. 

The manor was decorated on the inside like an ancient castle. Tapestries, candelabras, even suits of armor. Paul whistled. 

“I _know_ ,” Rupert said. “Isn’t it dreadfully dull?”

“I like it,” Paul said, his hand ghosting over a cabinet that must have been hundreds of years old, carved from very fine mahogany. “The craftsmanship and splendor of the place….” He trailed off, a little embarrassed. 

“Then Paul, seeing as we are going to be best friends forever and ever, I shall have to keep it as it is, just for you. So that you might visit me!” Rupert removed his waistcoat and threw it over the back of a chair without a thought. “Also? It’s an extraordinary excuse for being lazy and not spending a pea on remodeling. I’m rather clever, aren’t I?”

“A wit,” Paul agreed. This chap reminded him of the sort of fellows that loved putting on dramas at Cambridge. They said anything, did anything, dared each other anything – lived life by the seat of their pants, mostly because they could charm the pants off anybody. 

“Now, I’ve only just moved in and the servants are still getting used to me. So I haven’t a clue what’s for dinner. I didn’t give the cook much notice. Are you feeling adventurous?” Rupert’s eyes blazed. 

“For certain,” Paul said happily. 

Rupert led him to the dining hall – a long wooden table, flags and tapestries about the windows – he felt like he was in King Arthur’s court. “Stay here a moment while I find the chef.” 

Paul waited patiently, examining the room. Duke Jacobi had never been overly fond of children, and so Paul had only ever been to the manor once – at Christmas with Jenny many years ago – to sing a carol and deliver a basket of cakes from Mother and Father. The duke was less than ecstatic about it and they hadn’t returned. So to be able to see this glorious manor now… well, it was a treat. He did love history, after all. 

“Cold grouse,” Rupert shouted from the end of the room. “Is that something to grouse about?” The man… _giggled_. “Heavens, I’ve not even the wine to blame. Yet. Do sit down, Paul, and in a moment it will be brought out.” 

Paul sat at the head, accustomed to sitting opposite the host, but Rupert straddled the chair next to him and leaned his elbows on the table. A beat. Two. “It’s been painfully boring, Paul. This county is so _quiet_ compared to London.”

“Yes, I’d imagine. I don’t get up to town much.” 

Rupert gasped. “ _That_ is an absolute tragedy. A man of your young years, denied the devilish amusements of the city. Horrid. Horrid, Paul, we can’t have it. First the party, and then I shall take you to London, do you up right.” 

Paul smiled. “You shall have to meet my parents first.” 

“Yes. I heard they’re still living. Deplorable luck, old chum.” Rupert smiled kindly. “Do tell me about them so that I might dazzle them at my party.”

Paul swallowed. The servants entered with trays and a bottle of opened wine. “Well… Father is… He likes gaming, hunting, horses.” Rupert did not look impressed. Something Paul was infinitely pleased about. “Mother… actually, I’m not sure Mother likes _anything_ much at all, to tell the truth....” 

Rupert threw his head back and laughed. The servant blinked a bit, then began to carve their meat. “Priceless. Do go on.”

“At the moment, she’s preoccupied because my sister is with her first child. My sister is Jenny – Lady Jennifer Isaacs.”

“Where have I heard that name before?” Rupert whispered to the ceiling, smiling when the servant put a plate in front of Paul. “Is it all right?”

“Wonderful,” Paul said, nodding his thanks to the servant. “Sir Isaacs was a Colonel in the Royal Scots Greys; you know, the dragoons.”

“He’s Scottish, then?”

“No. He was promoted to the Greys thanks to his friend – a Lieutenant General Andrew Nugent, if I picked that up correctly. They were on campaign together in Africa in ninety-nine.” 

“Heavens! Your sister is married to the Butcher.”

The grouse in Paul’s mouth turned to ash. “Sorry?”

“The Butcher, the Butcher! Sir Jason Isaacs was notorious for whipping the natives into shape. Literally. How frightful. He must be a very severe man,” Rupert said around a mouthful. He drank some wine. “Shall I have to invite him to the party, do you think?” 

Paul smiled. “He lives in the next county over, so, perhaps not. Although Mother will want him to come; she may press. I confess, I do not enjoy his company much.” 

Rupert nodded. “Well, no, I should bloody well say not. Have some wine.” He poured Paul a glass. 

“Cheers.” It was _good_ \-- this man really knew his wines. Or Jacobi did, at least. “Perfection.”

“I rather like it myself and I have the most discriminating, hedonistic tastes.” Rupert winked. “So to your father I shall praise his horses, and to your mother... I shall praise her daughter. Anyone else in your family you’re forgetting?”

“Funny you should mention that, brother darling,” a beautiful woman said from the doorway. 

Paul shot to his feet, as he was trained to do. Rupert, however, merely raised his eyebrows and continued cutting his meat. “Helena. I thought you’d not come down to dinner. Aren’t you in mourning?”

Helena slinked her way round the table and very wilfully sat in the chair opposite Rupert. She glared and said to Paul, “Rupert, apparently, has no tolerance for anything that he does not find amusing. _I_ however give our uncle the respect his passing deserves.”

“You never knew him, Hel; he hated children,” Rupert mumbled, pouring himself a full glass of wine. “Will you be eating tonight, or can your heart not bear the strain of a full stomach?”

Helena ignored him, stealing the bread from Paul’s plate and popping it delicately in her mouth. It was a very strange family, Paul thought. “You’re Ev’s sister?”

She rolled her eyes. “My curse. Helena Bonham Carter-Everett. Widowed. Most people just call me Hel. And you are?”

“This is Lord Paul Bettany, our neighbor. I found him in the woods and decided to bring him back. Can we keep him, do you think?”

“Pleased to meet you, Duchess,” he said. 

“Oh,” she cooed, cupping his face. “I like him. Let’s do keep him, Rupert.”

Rupert smacked her hand away. “Hands off, I found him first. Paul is to be _my_ best friend. If you want one, you shall have to get lost in the woods on your own.”

Helena pouted and grabbed up Paul’s fork, eating off his plate now as if it were her own. Unsure what to do in such an unorthodox situation, he slid the plate closer to her and drank his wine instead. 

“Paul here adores music. He plays the cello.” Rupert’s eyes twinkled.

“Do you?” Helena asked. “Our uncle hated music.”

“I’m… I’m very sorry for your loss,” Paul said.

Rupert filled Paul’s wine glass and frowned at his sister. “You’re not going to pretend to cry again are you?”

Helena threw the last of her bread at Rupert’s head – it bounced with a _thwacking_ sound onto the floor – and then she reached for Paul’s wine glass. 

“Hel, leave our guest something to eat, heavens!” Rupert said. “Here, you can have some of mine.” He pushed his plate over to Paul. 

The laughter in Paul boiled up and came out rich and clear. These two belonged in a mad house. It was delightful. 

“Brother, your guest is quite the loon.” 

“I’m sorry,” Paul apologized, sobering somewhat. “It’s just... we don’t get such colorful folk as you around here. I cannot wait until your party.”

“Party?” Helena said, glaring at Rupert.

The other man tried to look innocent but gave it up in a few seconds. “Yes. So soon after mourning it will be scandalous! How fun! A welcoming party for the neighbors. We should meet them. I hope they are all like our Paul here.”

Helena sighed. “They won’t be. They’ll be stuffy bores, like everywhere else. No one will pay us the slightest heed, and Paul and I shall have to wed because no other man will have me.” At this, she laughed – it was a cruel laugh, really. 

Fun as these people were, they were exhausting. Besides, he really ought to get home. He thought of Russell, thought of his lonely bed, and took a sip of wine before he realized Helena’s lips had been there. Then he blushed bright red. “Excuse me.” Using his napkin, he wiped the glass and gave it back to Helena.

“How adorable. Rupert, we _must_ keep him, say we shall?”

Rupert nodded, leaning toward Paul until he was close enough to nudge him over. “No chance of escape now. We’re going to be best friends for life.”

“How do you know you won’t get to know me and hate me?” Paul asked. 

“Oh well that goes without saying,” Helena said.

“But that’s no reason to tear asunder a relationship as destined as ours, Paul,” Rupert explained. He raised his glass. “To Lord Bettany, the Mozart man.” Helena clinked glasses and they both drank. 

Paul felt warm in their presence, but sleepy too. Hazy. Keeping up with them, with their nervous energy, it was very tiring. “I must return home now, Ev. I’m very sorry. I do hope you and your sister will call on my family sometime. And I shall look forward to your party. Mother will have the names and addresses of every estate in the county. She will no doubt be very eager to assist you with your guest list.” 

Helena and Rupert made a funny face and then they both pinched his cheeks. “Shall I beat the stable lad to get you a carriage home?”

“No, no trouble, please. I know my way.” Paul got up. Helena generously offered her hand and he kissed it, feeling awkward, but then Rupert offered his hand the same way and Paul kissed it, laughing while Rupert batted his eyelashes. 

They walked him to the door and then he was out into the night – briskly walking back to Thistle Hawk. Once out of their presence he felt energized – as if their kinetic energy had rubbed off on him, given him a buzz along his skin – he made it to the woodhouse in under twenty minutes. 

Collecting up the cello, he shut Russell’s home up tight. For a moment, he _missed_ the other man, a pang in his chest. But he would be home soon. And Max would be too. They could resume their lessons and life would return to normal – only this time, he could have coffee and ride Apple and go to his friends’ parties, and Mother and Father could do nothing about it as long as he had Dr. Irons’ protection. 

He fell asleep smiling – his pillow still holding Russell’s scent. 

~*~

The next day Rupert presented himself to the manor at half past one – apparently he never believed in rising before noon, considered it bad for his health. Father instantly disliked him for a dandy and a fop; Mother was utterly delighted because he had come with an invitation to a party. A party for which her expert advice was desperately needed.

Paul watched, invisible from his parents’ eyes (as ever) from the sofa of the drawing room while Mother offered to help Rupert with writing up invitations and making him copies of the addresses for his records. Father made all the appropriate grunts when necessary, discussing the best caterers in town to temporarily aid Rupert’s staff – who had not thrown a party at the Jacobi manor in years. North Ember was infamous for being very much secluded – something Rupert was eager to rectify and Mother was eager to see done. 

It was about fifteen minutes into tea when Rupert began praising Father on his horses – rather than being pleased, Father’s face drew tight. “We’d just had a rather nasty accident with our finest horse, Byron. The horse is fine, but the rider broke his arm.”

Rupert glanced at Paul for some indication if he should test the waters, but it was too complicated for Paul to communicate with simply a look. “Well, that is unfortunate, sir, but I do hope it won’t keep you from continuing. I was told you had the best horses in the county, and even beyond, and I should like to see them win many races in the future.” Rupert smiled and Father sort of echoed the motion. 

“You cannot let what happened at Pembyrn keep you from something you do so well, Father,” Paul said, hoping he could needle the man into keeping Russell and Max on. “Yours is not a spirit easily daunted.”

Christopher Bettany fixed Paul with a look over his rimmed glasses, but then nodded. “That’s just about the wisest thing I’ve heard you say in a while.”

“More tea,” Mother said quickly, quashing that conversation. 

Paul was certain to have a second cup – mainly to see Mother wince over its effect on his precious kidneys – and then he struck up a conversation with Rupert about music. Soon after Rupert begged off, explaining he had a few other houses to visit, but thanking his hosts. Paul walked him to the door.

The other man wrapped an arm around him and drew him in to whisper, “Merciful heavens, Paul, they are worse than you said! I can see I shall have to rescue you at every available opportunity.” 

Paul smiled. “Please do.” They hugged briefly – very odd, to gain such ground in so short a time – and then with a rakish smile, Duke Rupert Everett was off into the afternoon sun. 

It wasn’t until he closed the door that he looked down to see that Rupert had stuck a note in his vest pocket. ~ _Mozart Man ~ meet me at the fairies’ ball ~ tomorrow, same time? Bring cello._ ~ 

He glanced up then folded the note more securely in his pocket. 

~*~

The next day Paul spent half the afternoon in the woodhouse, reading. Russell had quite the collection of books. He missed the man. He wanted him there, to talk about reading. To talk about the horses, even. Or, best yet, not to talk at all, but just to play, to make love, to have him fill up the room with his powerful presence. 

But then Rupert was there, bustling in the door like a child that had sneaked into a tree fort. “Paul, hullo, hullo!” The man swung himself onto the bed. “Did you wait long? Isn’t it perfectly devious of us, to have a secret rendezvous in the woodhouse?”

Paul thought on the irony of it. “I suppose. Luckily you asked me to bring my cello, so I shan’t fear being ravished.”

“Heavens, I’m hardly the ravishing sort, if I do say so myself.” Rupert sniffed and held up a long, rectangular case. “I’ve brought it.”

“What?” Paul asked.

“My flute, of course.”

Paul laughed. “Oh, of course. I should have figured you for a musician.”

Rupert smiled and then put his instrument together with all seriousness. “I’ve some sheet music, if you like, but I thought we’d just....”

“Wing it?” Paul asked. It was more Rupert’s style. 

Nodding, Rupert began to play – something sprightly and cheerful. Paul found he could easily keep up with the bass, letting Rupert flutter up and down the scales while he kept time. It was… fun. Not his usual. They played the afternoon away, until sweat beaded on their brows and Paul knew Rupert had to be thirsty. 

“Would you like to come up for a drink?” Paul asked. 

“No,” Rupert immediately said. “Your father is the most unpleasant man I’ve ever met, save my uncle, who mercifully, is now dead.” The man grinned. “Do you want to come over to my place? Hel’s been asking after you.”

Which Paul found a little unsettling. He was convinced she was half-mad. “Um, no, actually. I better stay here, work on some of my own music, things like that.”

Rupert lifted his eyebrows. “More music?”

Paul shrugged. “I’m a solitary creature, Ev. It’s going to take some getting used to, having a friend.”

“Ah. Two days and I’ve worn you out already. Stamina, chappie, stamina!” Rupert bounded off the bed and put his flute away. “I’ve decided the party shall be a week from tomorrow. No one ever does anything on Thursdays, I’ve always been told.” 

“Sounds delightful.”

“No need to get up, dear heart, no need. I shall let myself out. But wherever shall we meet once your horse-master returns from… wherever he is?”

“At Pembyrn, with his rider.” Paul cleared his throat. “I imagine you could call at the house and we might play in my rooms. Mother likes you, at least.”

“I _adore_ dames like her. She’s a peacock, your mother!” Rupert smiled, leaned in and gave Paul a very quick peck on the cheek. “Dear Paul. I shall see you next week, then! Save up your strength!”

Paul sat there for a moment, on Russell’s bed, hand on his cheek. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Charming the Prince**

The two weeks Russell spent at Pembyrn had been an utter hell. Max was in a great deal of pain, though he bore it gracefully, and that put Russ in a mood darker than the pitch black of the bottom of the ocean. Isaacs made inquiries after the boy’s health every day, until Russell wanted to remove the man’s tongue – firstly, because he could instinctively tell that Isaacs just wanted the boy out of the way, and secondly, because Isaacs had dared to touch his lover, sending Paul home to flee for his safety and leaving Russell here on his lonesome. 

That, and Lady Isaacs brought them sweets and meals every four hours without fail from sun up to sun down. Max had no appetite and Russell had no idea how he would keep from gaining stone.

If not for Sean and Dr. Irons, he was quite sure he would have gone insane. 

The only time he left Max on his own was when the doctor examined him. Luckily Dr. Irons was very thorough, and he was able to have almost a half an hour to walk outside, smell the fresh air, speak with Bean. They walked around the stables, inspecting Isaacs’ amazing breeds, and on occasion spoke of Elizabeth, or their travels, or even Paul. 

On the fifth day, a lanky, dark figure rested on the stable’s frame. “Did you miss me at all?” the man said – in a distinctly American accent.

“Vig!” Sean called, running up to the other man and folding him in a huge hug. They rocked back and forth for a while, and then Viggo caught his eye. The man tipped his – dear Lord, was that a cowboy hat? “Didn’t realize we’d had company.”

“It’s Rusty, Viggo,” Sean said, like they’d had a million conversations about him before this. 

“Ah.” Russ approached slowly and shook Viggo’s hand – a man’s hand, firm grip, alpha male message loud and clear. “The infamous Captain Russell Crowe.”

“Honor to meet you, Mister Mortensen. Your races are legendary.” He nodded. 

Sean nuzzled at Viggo’s chin – impressive that _anyone_ could inspire Bean to public displays of affection – but perhaps this was for his benefit. Or to reassure Viggo. The American ran his hand through Sean’s hair and very, very quietly said, “Behave.”

Instantly Sean stepped back and looked at the floor. It was all Russell could do to keep from collapsing. Sean Bean. Sean _Bean_ had himself a master for a lover. Fuck all. 

Bean blushed a bit and took up Viggo’s gear, moving it to the back of the stables. Russ and Viggo shared a long, telling look, and when Sean was back in earshot, Russ said to Viggo, “You lucky son of a bitch.”

The American smiled slowly. “You’re the one that walked away.”

Russell licked his lips. He did not want to fight with Sean’s lover, nor bring up the past. “No, mate. We both walked away at the same time.”

“That’s true,” Sean said quietly. “But you’re back now. And you’ve… a lover of your own. Quite a pretty one.”

Russ smiled, shaking Viggo’s hand again. “So have you, Bean. You take care of him, now?”

Viggo held Sean close then and nodded. “You’ve my word.”

“Good.” It hurt a little to see Sean so well suited to another, but in a fantastic way. “I’d better get back to my ward.” He glanced at Sean – still no recognition – and then headed back down to Max and the stuffy, white room. 

So it went for two weeks, until Max was well enough to walk without jarring himself too badly. It was four miles home, so they took one of Isaacs’ hansom carriages, but went extra slowly so as not to bounce too much. Russell tucked the boy into his side to act as a buffer, absorbing the shocks for Max, and the boy often looked up at him as if he could walk on water or some such. 

“How are you feeling?”

Max opened his mouth and then closed it again.

“It hurts?”

Max nodded.

Russ took up his good hand. “You can squeeze my hand until we get home.” And the boy gripped tightly – far too tightly, this must have been agony – while Russ counted the milestones in the road and willed himself to be patient. He pressed his cheek to Max’s forehead every so often, offering silent encouragement. 

When they got to the manor, Russell helped the boy out of the carriage and thanked the driver, but didn’t wait for the staff. He wrapped his hand around Max’s stomach and guided him carefully to the woodhouse. 

“But where will you sleep, sir?” Max asked, very concerned.

“On the floor. If you can make it through the night without medicine, I’ll go to the stables and sleep there, but not until I’m convinced.”

“Sir… I’m sorry to put you to so much trouble, sir.”

He lifted the boy’s chin up with two fingers. “Pirkis, there are many things in this life you will have to apologize for. Being ill is not one of them. There are many people who are going to expect to be asked for pardon. I am not one of them.” He leaned down until they were nose to nose. “It’s you and me all the way, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Max said eagerly. “You and me, Russ.”

“There you are. Now ease down.” He helped the boy lie back – he noticed immediately that Paul’s cello was gone from under the bed, but there was nothing he could do about it now – and the petted the boy’s hair. “I’ll go get the bag of medicines Doctor Irons left us.”

“Here,” Paul said, walking through the doorway. “I took the liberty of getting them from the coachman.” He handed them to Russell. “How’s our young man?”

“Much better now that I’m home, my lord,” Max said. 

Paul went over and kissed the boy’s forehead, which thankfully, the boy endured. “Are you certain you wouldn’t like a room in the house?”

“It’s fine here,” Russ said. How he ached to touch Paul, then. Those blue eyes took in his face – no doubt seeing every wrinkle, dark circle, and line the last few days had produced. “Your sister sends her regards. Something about a masked ball?”

“Oh, dear, Ev invited them!” Paul said in a huff. “Well, couldn’t be helped I suppose.”

“Ev?” Russ _tried_ to keep the distrust out of his voice but he was a simple sort of man. 

Paul glanced at Max. “We should let you rest, Mister Pirkis. Russ, might I speak with you outside?”

Nodding somberly, he followed Paul out to the woods and shut the door. “So, Ev —”

Paul was up against him, attacking his mouth, kissing him soundly, long arms wrapping around his shoulders and squeezing him close. He indulged. Pressing the younger man up against the side of the woodhouse, he kissed him until they both couldn’t breathe. “I missed you, little prince.”

Paul groaned. “Agony… if not for Ev.”

“The second time I’ve heard this name in as many minutes. Who is Ev?”

“Duke Rupert Everett, our new neighbor. He and his nutter sister, Helena, are throwing a masked ball as a way of getting to know the neighbors – at midnight everyone takes off their mask and figures out who’s who, you see.”

“Found a new friend, did you?” 

“Well, he found me, actually, but yes. He’s a good man. A tad insane, but that’s often a sign of genius.”

“Genius,” Russ murmured.

“He plays the flute. Quite well. He’s from London. Studied at Oxford, before I even thought of Cambridge. Not that he’s old, he’s not. Only a few years older than me, probably not as old as you. He’s fun. Exhausting but —”

“Bettany. Shut up about Rupert Everett.” Russ kissed him then, kissed him and pressed up, up against the wall, the wind in the trees promising an evening shower. He tasted Paul, sucked on his tongue, pressed their bodies together until Paul couldn’t keep quiet.

“Max will —”

He dragged Paul by the wrist, deeper into the woods, until they were surrounded by thicket on three sides, and then he pushed Paul up to a tree and knocked his feet apart. Paul hooked a leg around his waist and matched him thrust for thrust, panting in his ear, begging. 

“Please, please,” the younger man whispered over and over again as Russ ground their hips together. So many nights spent thinking of this incredible young man, imagining Sean Bean, imagining himself, imagining nameless, faceless men taking Paul – in the end, the mental picture of Paul’s face as he came always pushed Russ over the edge. And now, he was home – home in the man’s arms. 

Soon he was violently thrusting against Paul – up, up, up again, until Paul was on the very tips of his toes – and then Paul bit his shoulder and they both came. Russell held them up while they caught their breath. “We both came off together that time,” he said, not sure why it was important to put it into words.

Paul gave that shy smile of his – that intoxicating smile – and then kissed him and nuzzled him. “We should get back to Max. I’ll stay with you a while.”

“We should clean up first. I have some rags outside.” They stumbled back to the woodhouse, cleaned up, and sat by Max’s bedside. The lad woke a few times, but all Paul had to do was read softly in Latin and the boy soon nodded off. 

Russ lay on the floor – Paul sat on the wooden stool. For many minutes both of them stared at Max and let the sounds of the evening filter in around them. 

“Jenny will be coming tomorrow. For the party.”

“So will Sir Isaacs,” Russ said darkly. “I hate men like him.”

Paul shrugged. “He’s just one man.” As if that explained everything in the course of human events. 

“I don’t like you going someplace where he can corner you.”

“Ev will be there. He won’t abandon me.”

“Should I be jealous of Ev?” Russ asked, only half-joking.

Paul nodded sincerely. “Oh yes. You should be rife with jealous rage. You’re so handsome when possessive, love.”

Russ risked a glance at Max and then lifted a hand to palm Paul through his trousers. “Mine. Don’t forget what’s mine.”

Paul licked his lips, leaned back, and closed his eyes. He let Russell have his way with his prick, until he was hard and straining in his trousers. Russ did nothing more than exert minimal pressure in slow circles until Paul was red and frustrated beyond words. Finally Paul dared to take control, getting off the stool and down onto his knees, placing his hand over Russell’s and humping into it. 

Russ _squeezed_ and Paul bit his lip to trap the groan inside his mouth. Then Russ showed mercy, speeding up his movements, flattening his hand so that Paul could thrust against him, and he could feel the warmth spread and stain when Paul came a second time that day. 

“Christ,” Paul whispered. 

“Get home, little prince,” Russ said gruffly. “Before you’re missed.”

“I am home,” Paul murmured, kissing the back of Russ’s hand in a bizarre, courtly gesture. “But now I have to get back.”

Russ pulled him in for a kiss. “I didn’t…Sean… I was faithful to you,” he blurted out. “I just wanted you to know that.”

Oh the _smile_ that earned him. Paul kissed his nose. “You know I belong to you.”

He clutched Paul close, desperate, a feeling like nothing he’d had before – like he was sinking into a lake as still as glass and he could see Paul’s face above him, fading out of sight, and oh sweet God, he’d fallen in love. He affectionately pushed Paul off and hurled him toward the door, then spent the rest of the night staring at the candle and Max’s silhouette.

~*~

The next day the manor was twittering over preparations for Everett’s foolish little masked ball. Russ saw to the horses as quickly as possible – glad to find Mr. Edgar had ensured that the stable hands had taken good care in his absence and Byron was, in fact, quite fine – then he kept to himself, sitting on his stool outside the woodhouse. When Max was awake, they ate, he read aloud, sometimes they’d play a game Russell would make up – remembering Latin names or thinking of numbers between one and one-hundred, that sort of thing.

Max was at that stage where he wanted to get up and walk around, be useful, but he was still so tender and the possibility of anything going wrong so great – Russ kept him to the bed for as long as possible and didn’t let him roam farther than the privy when necessary. Russ still had to do many things for him – by now he could eat on his own, and wash some parts of himself, but twisting and bending was difficult. Surprisingly, Russ didn’t mind being so heavily depended upon. It was exhausting, but… It was Max. It was _family_.

Paul came by around mid-morning, bringing them strawberries and sweet cream. He brought Max another book – this one on Greek philosophy, but in English, thank Christ. He looked good. Very good. There was no more weight to him, but he had a healthy color to his cheek. Russ remarked so.

“Doctor Irons laid down the law. You should have seen him, Russ. He went charging into the sewing room and yelled at Mother – you would have thought it was high noon in the wild west. The end result being that I may eat what I wish, when I wish, and walk as long as I like, and visit with Ev and even ride Apple again, when Max is healed and there is time for such things.”

Paul reminded him very much of a young boy, so delighted with such simple things. And Russ knew, if he were totally honest with himself, he knew that he had a harsh streak in him, a rough patch that wanted to crush the very thing he loved best about Paul Bettany – his innocence. Not purity, but innocence. It never occurred to Paul that drinking coffee and riding a horse were his God given rights; that a normal life had been denied to him through no fault of his own. Instead, he said, “That’s wonderful, love.”

Paul couldn’t stay long – he was expected to be there when his sister and brother-in-law came. But Russ was grateful, after two weeks separation, just to spend a little time with him. After Paul left, the hours stretched on and on for both he and Max. It seemed like everyone had something interesting to do but them. 

“Do you want I should read some of this book to you, sir?” Max asked. 

“Sure, son.” Russ polished off his whittled pieces – he was making a chess set for Paul for Christmas. He wanted it just so – each major piece was a God from the Greek pantheon. The idea came to him round about the time Max started his obsession with all things Greek. Greek politics, Greek plays, Greek philosophy, even Greek farming practices. In less than twenty-four hours, Russell felt he’d _been_ to Greece and back. “Rather than reading it to me, why don’t you tell me what it is you’ve learned.” 

“It’s on the subject of the three-hundred phalanx.”

“Is that some creature with three-hundred heads?”

“No, that’s a hydra, and it only had three heads. Well, to begin with.”

Russ smiled, because he’d known that, actually, but it gave Pirkis something to show off. “Go on, then.” He put one of the pawns away and picked up another small block of spare wood. He also got out his old pipe – he’d not toked off this one since he’d been captain of the _H.M.S. Seabird_ but… he put some cherry root in and began to smoke, sitting by the door so as not to disturb Pirkis. “Go on.”

“The three-hundred were the most famous of all the Greek armies because they attacked in one arrow-head formation called a… a phalanx. But the best part is, they were never beaten because it was an army of lovers.”

Russ’s head snapped up. His pipe hung out the corner of his mouth. “What did you say?”

“Lovers, they were lovers. Not the whole army. They were pairs of one-hundred and fifty lovers, actually.” Max squirmed a bit. “It was believed back then that women had no souls. So if you loved one, it was kind of like falling in love with your horse, or your goat, or something. It was considered… perverted. All men took lovers. But these men… they were unstoppable. Imagine an entire army or navy of lovers, sir. England would never lose.”

Russ thought of Sean Bean, of his mates on the high seas. Russ thought of Paul, of what he’d do if Paul was ever in danger – how he’d move mountains. “Aye,” he said softly. “Do away with the Articles of War and that would be a force of reckoning.”

“What would?” Dr. Irons asked, knocking on the open door and then tipping his hat. “Good afternoon, young Pirkis. You’re looking… bored.” The good doctor smiled and removed his hat. “Might I…?”

“Come in,” Russ invited, getting to his feet. Once again he almost apologized for the state of his home – but Russ was not in the habit of apologizing, ever. “Whatever are you doing here?”

“Sir and Lady Isaacs offered me their carriage. I had wanted to check on the lad. It’s time to change his dressing.” Dr. Irons went over to the bed and ruffled Max’s hair. “By now you must be itching to be up and about.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well. That’s a damned shame. Because you’ve got another week to go before that solidifies enough that I’d trust you to so much as lift a pail with your good arm. Your bones are still growing – it’s imperative this mend exactly so.”

“Mind the doctor,” Russ said, unnecessarily. As if Pirkis would ever disobey a direct order. 

“That’s right. I am also a force with which to be reckoned.” Dr. Irons winked and produced a piece of licorice from his pocket. “Care for some, lad?”

Max waited for Russell’s nod. “Oh yes, sir, thanks!”

“Good boy.” Dr. Irons turned to Russ next. “You haven’t been sleeping well.”

Russell deeply resented that, because now Pirkis was going to feel guilty. “I’m fine.”

“You’re a horrid liar, horse-master.” Dr. Irons pulled a white envelope from his jacket pocket. “Put this in water, it should help you sleep deeply.”

“Thank you, but all the same. I don’t want to sleep deeply. I need to be… at the ready.”

Dr. Irons looked from the boy back to Russell. “It’s a broken arm, Crowe, not a loose cannon. I seriously doubt anything will happen that might have been prevented should you have been awake. Good Lord, even Atlas needed to shrug.”

“Ah, Atlas!” Pirkis said, pointing to the book. Russell rolled his eyes. 

“You know what you need, Mister Crowe?” Dr. Irons took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “You need some time away from the sickbed. I’d be happy to stay with Master Pirkis here for an hour or so. You should head out. You’ve friends waiting for you at the stables.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Sir Isaacs brought Sean Bean and Viggo Mortensen to meet the elder Lord Bettany. They’re in the stables and should probably like to, at some point, speak with the horse-master. You go out, give yourself permission to crack a smile. Young Pirkis and I shall be quite fine, won’t we, lad?”

Max nodded. “You should, sir. You can’t keep going for so long without a break.”

“Max, are you my doctor?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you my mother?”

“No, sir.”

“Then what gives you the right —”

“I love you, sir.” 

Russell stopped suddenly. He almost tripped, but he was standing still. 

The boy grinned. “But the sight of you is getting old.”

He eyed Max but couldn’t hide his smile. “And you’ll stay put and behave?”

Max nodded. Overhead, thunder rolled just a bit, but that wasn’t unusual for this time of year. “I assure you, he’s in good hands. We will read – let’s see, what is it – oh, the Greeks. Homo eros. How wonderful, my favorite forbidden subject. Fear not, dear Crowe, I shall not corrupt your ward while you are away for a few minutes. Now get out of this woodhouse before I’m forced to use my cane.”

“Thank you, Doctor. You are most kind to look after a stable-hand.” 

Dr. Irons smiled. “I was once in his shoes. Now, thanks to my studies, I am a knight. So who’s to say if it is more profitable to look after a lord or a lad – nobility is defined by one’s actions.”

Russ smiled. “Yes, sir. I’ll go now.” He fixed Pirkis with a look. “Bed. Rest.”

“Bed. Rest,” the boy mimicked him.

“Cheeky bastard,” Russ grumbled affectionately, heading to the stables. 

When he got there, Isaacs and Lord Bettany had gone up to the house to dress for the party. Viggo and Sean were alone in the stables, inspecting Byron and Tigerlily. 

“She’s a beauty,” Viggo said. “Look at the lines, the slope of her back. And he’s just gorgeous. Imagine what he could do over sand – look at those chest muscles.” 

Sean nodded. “Isaacs buys quality, but Bettany breeds it.” Russell nodded as Viggo stroked his fingers through Sean’s hair. 

He cleared his throat. “Evening, lads.” 

“Russ!” Sean went up to clap him on the back briefly. “How’s the boy?”

“On the mend. Very anxious to get out and about.” Russell shook Viggo’s hand. “Good to see you again.”

“We’re just here for the night. Sir Isaacs wanted me to meet Lord Bettany,” Viggo explained, “but I don’t think it went over quite as impressively as he’d hoped.”

Russ raised an eyebrow. “Anyone who’s raced a horse has heard your name.”

“Yeah, but they ain’t too familiar with my accent. Not exactly the stuff of legends in England, I’d wager.”

Russ grimaced. “They’re snobs. I hate them. I hate their very _kind_.”

Viggo shrugged. “I really couldn’t care less.”

Russ had no idea how a man could divorce himself so easily from emotion, but Viggo Mortensen seemed irritatingly unflappable. “You’re a stronger man than I.”

“Where’s the pretty young lord?” Sean asked, ribbing Russ.

“Getting ready for the ball. Or masquerade. Or house-warming party, I don’t know, some damned thing.” Russ rolled his eyes. “He’s talked of nothing but Duke Rupert Everett since my return. I’ve not even met the man and I’m ready to kill him.”

Viggo smiled, understanding. “You have to let things go, pal. If they come back, they’re yours.” Fingers back into Sean’s hair and his best friend was practically _purring_.

“Paul is most definitely mine,” Russ said, just in case the matter wasn’t clear. 

“Then why aren’t you going to the ball-masquerade-house-warming-party?” Viggo challenged.

Russ looked at Sean like his lover had lost his mind. “My invitation must have been lost in the post.” He and Sean grinned. 

Viggo shook his head. “It is a _masked_ ball, right?”

Russ caught his meaning. “Well, my fancy clothes are at the cleaners….”

“The footmen are in penguin suits,” Viggo said. 

Russ frowned. “Tuxedos,” Sean translated. 

“You could borrow one of theirs, get a mask, have an evening with the upper crust crowd. Charm your prince. Make sure Lord Bettany knows to whom he belongs. And get back before the stroke of midnight, lest you turn into a pumpkin.”

“Does he often talk like this?” Russell asked Sean.

The blond shrugged. “It’s endearing.”

Russ shook his head. “Look, I’ve got a sick kid in the woodhouse —”

“I’ll watch over him. And Doctor Irons is right here if anything goes wrong,” Sean said eagerly. Russ almost didn’t have the heart to refuse – maybe Sean wanted some time with the boy and that was the real reason behind his coming to the manor. 

“I’ll see about your costume,” Viggo said, grinning. “The glass slippers, however, are out of the question.”

“What is he talking about?” Russ asked Sean. 

“A bath, to start with,” Sean said. “Come on, Russell. You’re going to crash a rich man’s party." 

~*~

The boys had outdone themselves. Russ bathed at the stables while Viggo swiped him one of Charlie’s nicest suits – removing the waist apron so that it actually looked like a gentleman’s tuxedo. He also managed to procure a comb and toothbrush. Meanwhile, Sean had found his way to the woodhouse and let Dr. Irons know that Russ would be away on business for Lord Bettany, and that he and Viggo would be staying with Max. Secretly, Russ hoped this would be a chance for Sean to realize what he’d known in his heart all along. Then again, a small part of him prayed to God that Sean didn’t want to take Max away. 

In under half an hour, Viggo had him washed, spit-shined, and looking like a rare prize. Now there was just the small matter of finding a mask. Suddenly Russ remembered. “Lord Bettany has a collection of art from Venice. I think there’s an opera mask in there.”

“Well there you go,” the American said. “Since you know the place best, you should sneak in and get it while the family’s busy getting ready.”

Russ nodded. “What are you going to do?”

Viggo shrugged. “Stay with Sean.”

“Nothing untoward in front of the boy, understood?” Russ was serious. He didn’t want to offend, but Sean and Viggo were shockingly familiar with each other. 

The American grinned. “I’d like to think I’d better sense than that.”

Russ nodded. “Me, too. This is a damned foolish idea.”

“Yep.”

“I’m going to do it anyway.”

“Yep.”

“Remind me why?”

“Why else, pal? Love.” Viggo smiled.

An army of lovers, unstoppable. “Right.”

Viggo helped him shut up the stables for the night – a storm would break sometime before midnight, it looked – and then he watched the American follow the beaten path out to the woodhouse. Turning on his heel, he sneaked in the kitchen entrance and up the stairs to the second floor. 

Dr. Irons was in the library, poking the firewood. Mr. Edgar helped the gentlemen into their waistcoats; they would be leaving soon. Russ crept into the portrait hallway and tiptoed down to the gallery – there, in a class case – the mask. It was a deep cobalt blue with gold trim and false rubies. Gingerly he opened the case and slipped it out, then shut the door again and moved like lightning back to the servant’s stairs. 

Paul opened the door and called for Mr. Edgar – something about a troublesome tie – and Russ nearly came out of his skin. But he wasn’t spotted, so when the coast was clear, he sneaked down the stairs and set off in the woods. He knew vaguely where North Ember was – one could see it from overtop the highest manor hill – but he would arrive later than the family, for they were going by carriage. 

The walk through the woods was exhilarating. Russ had never been to a ball before. The entire idea of it was insane, but he looked on it as a personal test – how well could he blend in before the evening was through? And wouldn’t Paul be surprised?

The wind picked up – Russ hoped the storm would not keep Pirkis awake tonight. Especially not with Bean and Mortensen sharing the room, good God. He felt a little guilty for slipping out like this, but….

He rounded a large oak and there it was – North Ember. Tall and glowing yellow, like something out of the stories about Camelot. Carriages pulled up in the drive – damnation, Russ hadn’t thought about his entrance. A lone man walking up the drive would be noticed. 

Slowly so as not to attract attention, Russ walked along the outer wall and then quickly ran beside a boxed-in coach. When the others got out, he pretended to have come out from the other side, and walked a fair distance behind the others. No one presented an invitation – since anonymity was the key of tonight’s fete – so he was able to get in easily.

The manor was truly overwhelming. It was like Russell had stepped into another time. More than just the décor, the lavish ice sculptures – the buffet tables – the champagne. No expense was spared. The opulence was almost obscene. It brought to mind imperial garden parties. He looked around at the smiling lips peeking out of intricate masks, some garish, some delicate – and he didn’t really like it. Not at all. It simply wasn’t in accord with his character. 

But he knew Paul Bettany even without the aid of seeing his face – knew the man in that blue satin sash, standing along the back wall, as his sister walked away from him in her ornate pink gown. He knew Paul Bettany by the curve of his shoulders. By the way his fingers played an imaginary piano whenever bored with the conversation around him. By the way the man seemed awkward even now. 

He edged closer, about to introduce himself, when a tall man walked straight up to Paul, and revealed his face. It was a handsome face. Warm brown eyes. He watched as the man said, “Paul, my dearest friend in the world, is that you?”

Paul lifted his golden mask and smiled. “Yes, Ev, but doesn’t that ruin the point?”

“Ha!” Duke Everett laughed. “I _knew_ it. I knew I could ferret you out. Excellent. Helena is in the red dress with the ballet mask. You must ask her to dance before the night is through, or she will never forgive me.”

Helena? Who the bloody hell was Helena?

“Oh, I’m not a very good dancer,” Paul hedged.

“Oh, that doesn’t matter, she’ll lead anyway.” Everett winked and slipped his mask back on. “How’s the food? Excellent, isn’t it? Try some lobster.”

Russ watched as Paul let himself be led by his new… interesting… friend. He watched as they ate, as they drank – since when could Paul hold such spirits? He watched as Paul danced with Helena, whoever she was, she was too close to him for any sake of propriety and he could _see_ the wheels turning in Lady Bettany’s head – a match – she was practically quivering in her ivory evening dress. 

And then of course there was Isaacs – a black suit with a green silk vest. He was slick and cool, like a snake. It wouldn’t surprise Russell in the least to one day discover he had a forked tongue. Isaacs was watching Paul attempt to glide through a waltz – truth be told, Helena _was_ leading, but she managed to keep them from colliding into any other dancers or tables, so he supposed it was a fair arrangement. 

When that was done and the music turned to something too lively for Paul to hope to rally to, Russ began closing the distance between them. He wanted to slip an arm around the young lord and call him his little prince, and then when they could, sneak off somewhere secluded and teach Paul to whom he’d always belong. 

But that would be a hard feat, for Isaacs had gotten there first, tugging on Paul’s jacket, pulling him toward the other room. The two men looked like they were engaged in a heated conversation – not angry, just a lot of fast talking – and then Isaacs pulled Paul from the room. 

Of course, Russell followed. Something small and orange ran by his feet – sweet Christ, was that a tiger? No time, however, to ponder why a tiger might be at North Ember, for he had a little prince to rescue.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: Blood and Ink**

In earnest, Paul was looking forward to the party. Not, in so much, that he _enjoyed_ parties, in fact he was glad of the mask, because he wasn’t extremely clever or outgoing – but Ev _was_ , and Paul was interested to see how the county folk would receive it. This would not be just another boring dance. 

Mr. Edgar spent most of the afternoon assisting Father and Jason – both of them were fastidious about their appearance – but was sure to lend Paul a helping hand with his tie. Damned things. He wished ties would hurry up and go out of style. 

Tonight he wore his opera tuxedo with a blue satin sash. His mask was gold with a hooked bird’s beak. It was all rather ridiculous, but that was half the fun of being in the company of Rupert. No one was allowed to take themselves too seriously.

A knock at the door. It was Jenny. “Do you need help with the tie?”

“Jennifer, you are a vision!” Her pink ball gown was resplendent, and she wore her hair partially down, as she had not done since her wedding day. In point of fact, being with child suited her – she was not showing yet, but there was a kind of _glow_.

“Thank you, Paulie. Most kind.” She helped him into his jacket. “Jason found it fetching, at least.”

“Mm,” Paul murmured, trying desperately not to get his thoughts stuck on Jason. “Is it time to leave yet?”

“Mother’s making some last minute adjustments to her dress. She’s adding peacock feathers to her hair, as well. Something Duke Everett suggested.”

Paul laughed.

“Your friend is rather odd, Paulie.” Jenny smiled. “Is he really a dandy, do you think?”

“Heaven knows,” he said. “Does it matter?”

“Not to me. Just don’t tell —”

“Mother,” they both said. Paul smiled. “Come on, let’s go.”

The ride to North Ember was uneventful. Father insisted they take the coach because it looked like rain. Paul wondered briefly if Max would be able to sense things like that in his arm, once it healed. Jason asked after his health and Paul was more than happy to assure everyone he was doing quite, quite well, feeling very strong indeed. Jason didn’t bother to ask after Max, and Paul was grateful that he didn’t bother to say much of anything else. 

North Ember was visible from the road – high torches were set ablaze, lighting the drive and the lavish topiaries in the grounds to the back of the house. Many people were there already, each new arrival trying to out-pomp one another with extravagant outfits and gaudy masks. Paul smiled to himself. What would Russell make of his class now?

The manor was clean and brightly lit – tables of food and drink were set up everywhere one turned. Already well over fifty people had shown up – apparently the Everetts invited entire families! It was easy to recognize some people by their familiar posture or clothing, but others were anybody’s guess. Some of them must be Ev’s friends from London. 

In the larger ballroom people were dancing – the musicians weren’t bad, actually – and in rooms further back there were billiards and games of darts. Outside the servants were setting up bowls of punch and trays of fruit. It was a warm night. Jason went to get Jenny and Mother some punch while Father undoubtedly went in search of the stronger stuff. 

“This is a very grand affair,” Jenny said softly to him. “His grace must be used to extravagance.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” a handsome man holding a tiger said.

Hold—holding a tiger?

“Good God, sir, is that a tiger?” Paul asked, leaning forward to get a better look. Adorable little thing – fuzzy orange fur ball with slashes of black stripe – white patches on the top of his ears and around his eyes.

“He will be, when he’s all grown up. Right now he’s just a kit,” the man said, holding him out to Jenny. She petted him, and then Paul petted him too, because, crikey, it was a living, breathing tiger!

“Your accent,” Jenny began, and if she weren’t holding her mask up to her face Paul was certain he’d see a blush there, “you are from South Africa?”

“Australia, my lady,” the man replied. He hadn’t bothered with the mask – or with dressing up. In fact, he looked like he’d just returned from safari. “M’name’s Pearce. Guy Pearce.”

Jennifer lowered her mask and smiled. “Jennifer Connelly Isaacs.” Pearce kissed her hand – good grief – and then his eyes flicked over to Paul. “This is my brother, Paul Bettany.”

“Oh, Ev’s Paul,” Pearce said, shaking his hand. Paul didn’t take off his mask. He liked Guy well enough, but something about him made him… uncomfortable. Perhaps it was the raw attraction between Pearce and his sister – his very married sister – married to a slightly cruel and overly libidinous man, granted, but married nonetheless. 

“Yes, Ev’s Paul. He’s sort of adopted me, I’m afraid.” He gave a sheepish grin.

“Afraid you should be, mate.” Guy winked. “If it were me, I’d rather take my chances with the tiger.”

Jenny laughed and cooed over the kit some more – it made a funny growling-chortling sound and for some reason reminded him of Max – and then he tried to swat at the silver ribbons in her hair. 

“Wherever did you get him?” Jenny asked, “And what will you do with him?”

“I was treasure hunting in India.” Guy grinned and pretended to whisper, “I do beg your pardon, Lady Isaacs, but I’m a bit of a rake. Not half so bad as Ev when it comes to gambling or drink, but I’ve never worked an honest day in me life.”

Jenny smiled. “Treasure hunting in India! Sounds thrilling.”

“Too right. Especially when the border police are about. Course, they’re not as scary as the jungle beasties. I found this little guy all alone. His mum was shot by hunters.”

“Oh,” Jenny said, petting it again. It really, really wanted one of those ribbons. 

“I’ve taken him in ‘til he’s weaned, and then I thought he might do well in the new large exhibit at London Zoo. You know, the one without any cages, just bars around a kind of large sanctuary?” Guy shook the little thing playfully. “We’re neither of us fans of cages, are we, mate? No.”

Jenny was transported. If he were totally honest, so was Paul. Here stood a man – a pirate, an adventurer – holding a baby tiger in the middle of a masked ball in a medieval manor. Not that that was more unusual than… well, Jenny was married to a slightly psychotic dog-of-war with peculiar tastes for pretty men – who was totally unaware that his wife went to Suffragette meetings behind his back. And Paul? Paul was letting his horse-master bugger him at every available opportunity. 

Perhaps the Everetts weren’t so much odd by comparison, just more honest about it. 

Suddenly the tiger leapt forward and gobbled up Jenny’s ribbon, along with a good deal of her long dark hair! She cried out and stumbled forward a bit. Guy pulled the kit back, meanwhile grabbing the mid-length of Jenny’s locks, to spare her the pain. The kit wrestled and eventually tumbled out of Guy’s arms and onto the plush carpet. 

“Yrwoar!” it complained, trotting off between the guests’ legs.

“You all right?” Guy asked over the commotion. He tucked her hair over her shoulder… _sensuously_. Jennifer nodded. Both of them headed after the tiger.

Paul, wisely, didn’t even attempt it. It was a small enough thing they would catch it and besides, he was rather clumsy at the best of times. Also, he wasn’t extremely eager to see anything paw his sister – tiger or man.

“Paul, my dearest friend in the world, is that you?” Rupert said, lifting up his mask. 

And that was how Paul got talked into dancing with Helena. He liked dancing. That is, he liked watching other people dance, as it were. Luckily she didn’t mind that he barely knew the steps – she was quite intent on pulling and prodding him through it – until mercifully, their waltz ended. Then she let him scramble back to the wall and safely blend in, disappear. 

Except from Jason’s discerning eye, of course. 

“I do believe my wife is chasing a tiger,” Jason said by way of greeting. “But I don’t mind because it gives me ample time to chase you. Tell me, pretty Paul, how could you leave my house so abruptly and not think it would hurt my feelings?”

Paul swallowed. “I hadn’t counted you a man of such sensitive nature.”

“I can be very tender, when inspired.” Jason smiled beneath his mask, and Paul felt flushed and unsteady.

“Sir, I think you should understand, I am happy enough to call you brother,” and here his voice hitched because it was a bold lie, “but your advances are unwelcome. They are unbecoming of you and an insult to my sister.”

Jason chuckled. “I can almost imagine you practicing that in front of your mirror.”

Paul blushed. Guilty as charged.

“Dear lad, did no one ever explain to you the way things work in the world of men?” Jason fiddled with Paul’s collar unnecessarily. “Jennifer has her silly women’s Suffrage movements, which I graciously pretend to know nothing about. And I have my beautiful things, which she, in truth, knows nothing about but I expect one day she’ll be just as happy to go along with the illusion when she’s old enough to understand.”

Paul was _horrified_. “If I were a different sort of man, Sir Isaacs, I’d challenge you to a duel.” 

Now Jason laughed outright. “You’d lose, dearest. I’ve a very sure aim and quick hand.” Jason illustrated this by striking out behind Paul and quickly bringing up a rose from one of the flower arrangements on the fireplace mantel. He stuck it in Paul’s lapel. 

“What is it you want with me?” Paul shifted away but there was no where to go except against the mantle.

From the slits in Jason’s mask he could see those ice-blue eyes gleam. “Is that not obvious?”

Paul felt faint, it was womanish of him, but it was true. The room was hot as more and more people filtered in, he was totally at a loss for words, and his sister’s husband was propositioning him like some damned whore. “I can’t _believe_ you dare….”

“Tsk,” Jason scolded. “How quaint of you. You must have some idea of these things. Surely you’ve been touched by another man?”

Paul ducked his head and Jason seized on the opportunity to move closer, steal more of Paul’s space. He really couldn’t breathe in that stupid mask. His fingers traced the tie in the back to take it off, but Jason reached up and stopped him. 

“You need air,” the older man said smoothly. “I’ve overexcited you, I see. Come then, let’s go outside.”

Paul shook his head. No way he wanted to be removed from public with this man. 

“You’re a few short seconds away from blacking out, admit it.” Jason put his arm around Paul as if truly concerned. “What a scene that would cause, hm? At your friend’s first party? Your family will have you back on weak tea in a minute. Come outside, there are tables and torches, have some night air and you’ll feel better.”

Jason’s voice was like satin and his words made some sense – Paul really didn’t have the heart to argue the matter, as he was now seeing spots at the edge of his vision. A shame the men in his family had such weak hearts – his was pounding.

He let himself be led out to the back court and down a narrow atrium, away from the smoke of the braziers. “Breathe deep,” Jason said softly, rubbing circles over his back. 

Paul closed his eyes and pretended it was Russell’s hands on his body, Russ’s voice in his ear, and slowly the knot in his chest unwound. “I’m better, much,” he said. 

“I’ve come on too strong, and you are so young and uninitiated. I do apologize,” Jason said, petting him. “I gather you’ve little in the way of any real experience, what with spending half your life up in that tower. Not that I’m complaining, I like to be the first to take a beautiful thing.”

Paul bristled. “Has it occurred to you at all that I might not want _you_? That I seriously might object?”

Jason studied him for a moment and then shrugged. “I will persuade you. I’m a very persuasive man.” Jason pushed Paul’s mask up to the crown of his head.

“I cannot imagine how y-mhmph —”

The older man grabbed Paul’s jacket and yanked him off balance, pulling him in for a fierce kiss. It was harsh and possessive, their teeth clacked, but Jason’s tongue was wicked – it caressed the folds of his mouth and licked over his teeth, devastating him in seconds. He had to clutch at the man simply to keep from falling over. 

Jason’s free hand traveled down his shirt, over his cummerbund and _grasped_ him tightly – but he was not hard. Far from it. The other man pulled away, slightly shocked. 

Paul smiled shyly. “Perhaps not as persuasive as you think.” He pulled his mask back over his face and folded his arms. 

Jason looked furious. Absolutely furious. He reached out, pulling Paul up close, when suddenly they both heard a man clear his throat. 

“Sir Isaacs, I presume?”

Jason hooked an arm around Paul as if they were engaging in a friendly embrace and smiled, meanwhile, Paul sort of clung to the green vest and tried not to land on his face. “Yes?”

“Your wife and Mr. Pearce are currently enlisting other guests to remove a tiger cub from one of Duke Everett’s ancient tapestries.”

“Christ, not the tapestries,” Paul muttered, despite the immediate situation. Hundreds of years of history in ribbons, good Lord!

“Lady Isaacs requested your presence in the dining hall.” The man – he was not as tall as Jason, but he looked stunning and powerful in his plain tuxedo and… was that Father’s Venetian mask? Or a copy?

“Hear that, Paulie?” Jason asked, letting him go reluctantly. “We’re needed to save the day.”

“I am to escort Lord Bettany to Duke Everett, if I should find him. Thank you, Sir Isaacs, for pointing him out to me.” The man smiled – it was a feral kind of smile – these two almost seemed like they would go at each other in a matter of moments. 

And what was so familiar about this stranger anyway?

Jason took a moment to compose himself and then nodded to them both and walked away – his gait clipped, conveying his annoyance. Paul blinked rapidly, trying to clear his head. “What was it Ev wanted of me?”

The man edged closer. “Nothing. I lied.” His accent was hard to place. 

“Oh,” Paul said stupidly. 

“You did not seem to be enjoying his attentions.” The man was close now, resting lazily on the wall of the atrium. 

Paul could feel himself blush a scarlet red. “He’s my sister’s husband. And a tad too affectionate at times.”

The stranger grinned. “I wonder if he thinks he’d married the wrong Bettany.”

Paul laughed because there was little else to do in such an awkward situation. “I am not the marrying kind, I believe.”

“No?” the man asked. “No beautiful ladies fawning over you? No children to dote upon, bounce on your knee?”

Paul shook his head. “I suppose I shall have to get around to it sooner or later – it is expected of us all. But….”

“You don’t want to be tied down. You’re a man of the world.”

“Oh, no!” Paul argued. “It isn’t that… It’s only….”

Paul hung his head. What was he going to say to cover himself now?

“Perhaps you’ve not met the right lady?” the man said gently. “Or perhaps you _have_ met the right… man?”

Paul sucked in a breath. The stranger was so close now – and really, this couldn’t be happening twice in the same evening, could it? “My heart belongs to another, yes.”

The stranger stroked the tip of his beak. “A shame. Yours is a life spent forever staring in the face of sacrifice. What will you choose, I wonder? Your fortune? Or your love?”

Paul straightened his back. The man already had enough on him to blackmail him for decades, why not a little more? “I would follow my love anywhere.”

The stranger smiled. “The passion of youth.”

Paul puffed up his chest. “Don’t doubt my sincerity, sir!”

A finger – calloused, hard – rested on his lips. “Never that, little prince.”

He was so focused on the finger and the fact that the stranger was closing in for a kiss – he’d taken a minute to blink and ask, “Russ?” 

“Surprise,” Russ whispered, untying Paul’s mask. 

“What are you doing here?” He let Russell all the way into his personal space – let the man back him up against a pillar in the atrium, moonlight cast around them, the partygoers far enough away to afford them some privacy. 

“Charming you, I hope.” Russ kissed him then, softly, sweetly, and Paul melted instantly against him. It was a _good_ kiss. 

“But what? How…?” 

“You don’t actually think I’d trust you within a hundred feet of Isaacs, do you? And a good thing, too. He might have gone too far, little prince.”

“He’s a liar and a cheat, but not a brute. I cannot imagine he would… force me… and in a place like this.”

Russ’s voice was very dark and fragile like dry tinder. “I imagine he would be the worst sort of man, if he thought for a moment he could get away with it.”

Paul closed his eyes and nuzzled at Russ’s neck. “How ever did you manage this? And Max?”

“Sean and Viggo are watching him.”

“Viggo?”

“The famous racer.” Russ kissed his temple. 

“Oh yes. Max shall be delighted.” Paul let the older man wrap him up in strong arms. The sleeves did not quite cover the length of his wrists. “This is not your suit.”

Russ snorted. “I stole it from Charlie. But don’t worry, I’ll give it back. And you can blame the American. It was his bloody stupid idea.”

“Oh, sure, blame the Colonist.” Paul smirked and kissed Russell’s check. “I’m very glad you did, love. I’m glad you’re here. This party is an absolute jungle.”

“Literally. Did you see the Aussie with the tiger? Your sister certainly took notice.”

Paul scrunched his face up. “I liked him. He was a very easy-going sort of chap.”

“Yes, very easy.” Russ ran his hands up and down Paul’s back. Outside, the first patter of rain fell. “Don’t tell me both Bettanys are smitten with that gypsy.”

“I’ve enough gypsy to suit me in you, darling.” Paul tilted his head back. “You actually came, I can’t believe your brass.”

“I have no shame.” Russ dove in to claim another kiss, bending him back, out into the drizzle, until Paul was mad with it, aching, feeling freer and headier than ever in his life. 

“What’s the meaning of this!” Father bellowed, running down the long atrium. 

Paul and Russ both jumped – Russ still had his mask on, thank God – so Paul pushed him over the low wall and out into the bushes. “Go! Go!” he whispered harshly, turning sharply to walk toward Father and… and _Jason_.

“Paul, dear, was that man molesting you?” Jason said, the very icon of innocent concern. 

Paul glared. 

“Who the hell was that?” Father barked. “What was he doing putting his mouth on yours?”

“Father, _please_ , keep your voice down.” Paul reached out but Lord Bettany smacked his hand away. “I can explain.”

“Sir,” Jason said, coming to Paul’s side. “Clearly Paul is the victim of some sort of sexual predator. It couldn’t possibly be anything else. I suggest we search the wood and find the brigand. I’ll string him up myself.”

But Father didn’t move – he just stood there, eyeing Paul. Until Paul felt very small – about eight years old – looking up at that forbidding, condemning expression the day his brother died. Can’t do anything right, that glare said. A disappointment beyond measure, those eyes said.

“Father —”

His father lashed out and grabbed Paul’s arm – hard enough it would certainly bruise – and jerked Paul back to the house. “Jason. See this party through, and then ask Duke Everett to supply a carriage home or get a ride from one of our neighbors. Say nothing of this to the women.”

“Of course, sir.” Paul looked back to see Jason fail to hide a smirk – the rat bastard! He’d led father there! He saw him with Russ and _led_ father to this scene for revenge!

“Fuck,” he swore under his breath.

“Silence,” Lord Bettany hissed. They made no excuse as Father quickly marched him – like a bad boy headed to the headmaster’s office – toward the coach. The rain was coming down heavier but he didn’t really notice. He was humiliated. 

Father tumbled him into the box and then sharply ordered the driver to make haste. They sat opposite each other, lightning occasionally allowing him to see Father’s sour face. 

“Please, let me explain —”

His father reached out and smacked him so hard his head banged into the side of the carriage. Paul’s vision swam for a moment. “You’ll not _breathe_ a _word_ until we are under my roof and away from witnesses.”

Paul held his cheek, he could taste blood on his lip, and stayed quiet. He had never seen Father this livid. He was almost insane. The carriage ride took less than a minute and then they were home. Father climbed out first – Paul second, gingerly – but then Father pushed him repeatedly toward the house. 

Mr. Edgar rushed up to the foyer. “I’d not expected you so early, my lord. What… Master Paul?” Mr. Edgar startled at the sight of blood on Paul’s mouth. 

He began to reassure Mr. Edgar when Father gripped his hair and yanked him up the stairs. Paul said nothing – terrified – his heart beating so fast, like the wings of a bird in a cage – dear God, when had all this turned to madness? 

Up past Father’s rooms, to the spiral stair – Father let go of his hair long enough to tug him by the collar and then _threw_ him into the room. He skidded into the table, the ink and dishes clattering to the floor. 

Lord Bettany slammed the door shut such that Paul could feel the whole manor tremble. “Now,” Father growled. “Your mother always suspected, but I have to ask, are you a sodomite, Paul?”

Paul stared, mute, unable to find his voice. It was all so horrific. 

“It’s a simple question,” Father murmured. “Do you like to fuck men?”

Gaping, Paul spread up his hands. “If you’d only let me explain, just listen —”

Christopher Bettany wrung his hands. “So help me, if you do not answer my questions immediately, I just might murder you. Do. You. Fuck. Men?”

Tears threatened behind his eyes but he absolutely wouldn’t show such weakness in front of his father. “Yes!” he choked out. “Yes, I prefer a man. That doesn’t mean I won’t do my duty —”

“ _Duty_!” Lord Bettany roared. “You speak to me of duty? And what, in your dream-filled, over-educated, foppish little mind do you imagine that to be? To marry and give this manor heirs? You? You, the bastard son of nobody knows who? You’d do me this great honor of putting aside your male lovers to get this family more brats?” Father picked up a glass and hurled it against the wall. 

Paul reeled, sinking to the floor a bit. He held himself up by the music table. “What did you say?”

“I’ll not repeat myself to you,” Lord Bettany sneered. “Simpering, weak…stupid… murdering little bastard!” He picked up a heavy book and lodged it at Paul, hitting him in the spine. 

Paul cringed at the pain. “What are you _saying_?”

“Do you need me to spell it out, boy? All that education not serving you well enough to glimpse my meaning? Your mother, devil take her, once upon a time lifted her skirts at a ball very much like this one, and so you were conceived. I suppose this sort of thing is to be expected. Perhaps whores come by it in their blood.”

Paul stood. “Then… I am not your son…?” Those tears welled up now. “I have never had _happier_ news, you vicious monster!” 

Christopher Bettany’s eyes blazed. “You ungrateful whelp. Where would you be without me? I accepted you as my own. I kept quiet about your birth. I raised you, paid for you, you’ve had the finest of everything. And what have you given in return? _My_ son in a grave, that’s what!”

A tear slid free. “I was a boy. It wasn’t my fault. James had the reins. It wasn’t his fault either. Whatever you think of me, at least give me that. We were children. And I loved James. He was my _brother_ , and I lost him too.” Paul wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Whatever you think of me tonight, at least know that, Father.”

“I’m _not_ your father,” Lord Bettany said through gritted teeth. “And as of tonight, you’ve no family to speak of!” The man strode across the room, picked up Paul’s cello, and _smashed_ it against the wall. It shattered into splinters. Then he gathered up Paul’s carefully tied orchestra arrangements and began ripping the pages apart. 

“No!” Paul shouted, agonized, leaping up to still Lord Bettany’s hands. The man punched him in the face continuously until he was down on the floor, slobbering blood onto polished black shoes. 

He crouched there, watching the white snowflakes of shredded sheet music flutter around him to the ground. Years worth of work, destroyed in a single minute. All that music, gone. He _did_ cry then. “You heartless coward. You _waste_ of skin,” he accused, spitting blood at the man.

Christopher Bettany’s face contorted then. He began kicking Paul in the ribs, knocking all the breath from his lungs, and then he stopped, heading for the music table, lifting it up high over his head to bring down on Paul. 

Paul brought his hands up instinctively and watched as Christopher Bettany’s face went from red to purple, purple to blue. The man’s arms shook. His mouth quivered. In fact, his whole body seemed to tremble, freeze, and then go slack. The table crashed behind him and Lord Bettany clutched his heart. 

He was rooted to the floor as he watched the man sink to his knees, struggle for air, and then crumple over to the dirty carpet. Then Paul moved, inching closer, rolling Lord Bettany over on his back. 

The man’s eyes were open. He was dead. 

Paul listened at his chest – not a sound. Not even a final gasp. His father was dead.

He sat there with the corpse for many minutes, shocked. He stared at the ripped pages, at the ink pooling and staining Mother’s expensive oriental rug. The table over on its side. His father was dead. His father was dead. Death again, a cloying scent, a lack of oxygen, a cape wrapped round too tightly. His father was dead. Dead.

“Master Paul?” Mr. Edgar called softly from the other side of the door. Paul barely registered it. 

Then the butler was crouching beside him, shaking him gently. “Go out into the hall, Lord Bettany. Go out into the hall.” Mr. Edgar pulled him up and carefully helped him walk out the door. He let Paul sag down the wall and sit there with his back propped up, staring off into space. 

Mr. Edgar went into the room and Paul could hear him cleaning up. An odd thing to do at this juncture. Shouldn’t they be doing something else? Telling someone else? He couldn’t think who – he could only stare at the cracks in the paint on the wall across from him. Why did he never notice those before?

Soon Mr. Edgar put everything to rights except for some of the black ink on the carpet which could not be removed. The old man carried the debris down to the kitchen and Paul didn’t see him for several minutes. Then he returned, this time with Dr. Irons and his black bag in tow. 

Dr. Irons paused over him, but Mr. Edgar led him to the bedroom instead. Paul crawled on his hands and feet and peered around the door. He saw Dr. Irons check for a pulse, examine the blue mouth for a trace of breath, and then close the eyes. Paul felt like a great wave had smashed down around him, he’d been tumbling, ballistic, and now things were so thick and permanent it afforded him a kind of calm. A clarity. 

“He’s dead,” Paul whispered. 

“Yes, Paul, he is,” Dr. Irons said. The elder gentleman came over to him then and checked his lip, the swellings on his face. “He hit you.”

Tears again. Why? Why did he have to be so weak? Such a disappointment. “He was angry.”

“Whatever about, my lord?” Mr. Edgar asked. 

“I kissed someone at the party.”

Dr. Irons sighed. “A girl from the wrong family, I take it?”

“Wearing a mask,” Paul murmured, but one look and Irons knew. He knew what Paul was. Knew what had really happened. “It killed him.”

“Heart attack. Your father brought it down on himself. He should have known better, getting so furious and beating you over something so ridiculous. This is not your fault, Paul,” Dr. Irons said sternly. 

“Don’t even think it, Master,” Mr. Edgar said. Both older men had their hands on his shoulders, steadying him. 

Dr. Irons cleared his throat. “Mister Edgar, I wonder if you might call together some help? We can lay him out in his rooms until the family returns and arrangements for an undertaker can be made in the morning.” 

Paul went over to the waste bin, knelt down, and vomited. Dr. Irons went rooting in his bag; Mr. Edgar was at his side, helping him wipe up the mess at the corner of his mouth. “Sir….”

He frowned. “Mister Edgar. You’ve always been so kind to me.”

“Oh, sir,” Mr. Edgar said, voice breaking. “I’ll go get my lads.”

Dr. Irons had fished out a needle and he was now squirting something clear out of its huge tip. “On the bed, Paul.”

Paul shook his head. He hated needles. No more medicines, no more bleedings or brews. Dr. Irons had promised. 

“Paul, you’re in shock and I’m concerned about the effects on your heart as well. Get on the bed now.” Dr. Irons drew him to the mattress – they circumvented Christopher Bettany’s body. 

Strange burbling sounds – he only just realized they were emanating from him. He lied down and let Dr. Irons have at his arm. “This should only relax you. You might sleep for a while. I’ll wake you when the family return.”

Paul shot up just as the needle went in. “My sister! My _mother_!” 

“Shush. Hush now, Paul. I’ll tell them. People take it better when it’s from a doctor, anyway. Lie back. Lie back, that’s it.” Dr. Irons plumped his pillow and already Paul’s eyelids were drooping. 

“He said I was a bastard and a whore.”

Dr. Irons snickered. “He was a gambling drunk with the French disease.”

Paul looked up at Dr. Irons’ wry expression, laughed a desperate, high-pitched sort of giggle, and collapsed onto the bed. 

“Don’t worry, lad. I’ll have Mister Crowe for you shortly,” he heard as blackness bloomed on the edge of his vision. 

No, mustn’t do that. They will find Russell gone – probably still at North Ember – and then there would be trouble. “No,” Paul breathed, shaking his head. “Don’t.” He didn’t remember passing out.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: Unreachable Star**

Russ had rushed through the woods, bramble tearing at his clothing and mask – he’d lost the damned thing somewhere along the way – his mind racing, his breathing coming out harshly. He made it back to the woodhouse in under fifteen minutes. The rain was thick and fat, soaking him and drenching poor Charlie’s suit. He pounded on the door and sort of fell on Sean when he’d opened. 

“What the deuce?” Sean asked, dragging Russ in toward the stove to get a better look at him. 

Max sat up in bed; Viggo straightened up and offered Russell the stool. He shook his head and remained standing. “Something’s happened.”

“What?” Sean began helping him remove his clothing – he was tearing at himself, almost ripping it.

“I… We… Your damned Sir Isaacs brought Lord Bettany down on us at the most ill opportune of times.” Russ glanced at Max, who appeared to understand much more than he would have liked. “Paul knocked me out of the way and took the brunt of it – I assume they came back here. I’ve no idea… no idea what kind of trouble he’s in, Bean.”

“All right, Rusty,” Sean said calmly, like he was talking to a spooked horse. It was like they were children again, Bean using that nickname. “Slow down. What exactly constitutes ill opportune?”

Russ shot him a look. 

“Ah.” Sean handed Viggo the jacket and waistcoat and then smacked Russ’s hands away, unhooking the collar to his shirt. 

“I lost the mask in the woods.”

“I don’t expect that matters now,” Viggo said. “Wait. You were wearing it when they came around? Then… then he doesn’t know it was you.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think there was time to see me. Otherwise he might have recognized it for his own damned mask. Bugger, I wish I knew what Paul was telling him! I’d back up his story if I could sort out what it was.”

“Is Master Paul in trouble?” Max asked from the bed. “Can I help?”

Sighing, Russell went over to the bed and petted the boy’s hair. “No, lad.”

“I don’t understand.”

Russell looked to Sean for help; Christ, he needed help, he couldn’t think. 

“Max,” Sean said slowly. “Viggo and I dressed Russ up so he might go to Duke Everett’s party.”

“Like Cinderella,” Viggo added. 

“Who?” Max frowned.

“Dang. Do you guys not have bedtime stories on this side of the pond?” Viggo kicked at the dirt floor and shook his head. “I know the Grimm’s brothers were English.”

“It was just supposed to be a bit of fun,” Russ explained. “But….”

“But,” Max gave a faint smile, “but Lord Bettany caught you kissing?”

Russ widened his eyes. He worked his jaw but couldn’t even begin. “Wha—ha – you….”

Max giggled. “Crikey, Russ, I’m eleven, not stupid.” He held up the book. “Homo eros? You _are_ thick sometimes.”

Russ closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I rather liked it better when you were studying Latin.”

“The Romans had orgies,” the boy said, shocking every man in the room. “What? They did.”

“What the hell you been teaching him?” Sean asked. 

Russell wiped his face with his palm and shook some water out of his hair. “Can we _please_ turn our attentions to how I can help Paul? His father is _not_ rational or pleasant when enraged. The lad could be turned out; disinherited. Because of me.”

Viggo began wringing out the clothes and laying them out on the shelves near the stove to dry. “Doesn’t seem wise with only one son. His father will most likely punish him, but if he’s truly yours, he won’t give up your name, and you’ll be here to comfort him when it’s over. If he does, you’ll most likely be fired. But I have some friends that would take on a man like you in a heartbeat, so don’t fear on that account, Mister Crowe.”

“You’re very kind but… I have to get to Paul; if I could just see he’s all right…” He got out of the last of his wet things and into the trousers and shirt Sean held. “I climbed the lattice once; I’d do it again if I could be sure Bettany weren’t there.”

“Oh Russ,” Sean sighed, like he was lost. “It might be best to wait out the storm.”

Russ looked at Max’s tight expression. “If Bettany finds out it’s me – mind you, I don’t believe Paul would tell, but suppose he saw me – then I’d rather not have this fight here.” And by here, everyone in the room realized he’d meant in front of Max. 

“You should go to him, sir, later on when things settle.” Max bit his lip. “Would you like to rest on the bed?”

He was going to refuse but, honestly, he was sore from holding every muscle in his body rigid. Trudging to the bed, he plunked down, careful of Pirkis’ arm, and sighed. Max put his good hand on Russ’s shoulder.

“Mayhap we should take Max back with us for a few days, mate.” Bean shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Might give you a chance to settle things up here.”

“We’d love to have him,” Viggo said. 

Inwardly, he groaned. Not his boy, don’t take away his boy. But he had to think about what was best for Pirkis. “Do you want to go, lad? Spend some time with a champion?”

“I want to stay with _you_ , sir, though I am of little use to you presently.” Max’s hand bunched up his shirt. “I won’t leave you, sir.”

He was going to cry and Russell Crowe did _not_ \-- _ever_ \-- cry. “I’m going to check on Paul. Once I know the situation, I’ll resolve your whereabouts, Pirkis.” And then to lessen the severity of his tone, he patted the boy’s cheek and gave a quick look to Bean. “I’ll be back shortly, most like.”

Sean nodded, and then he was out the door. 

~*~

Russ went up to the house, surprised to find a light burning in every window. He went to the kitchen and followed the maids down to the servant’s dining room, where Mr. Edgar had called a meeting around midnight. Russell was one of the last ones in.

“People, silence please,” Mr. Edgar said and everyone – still in their nightgowns and pajamas – was quick to quiet down. 

“As you know, Lord Bettany and young Master Paul came home earlier this evening and had a bit of a row. The nature of the argument is not important – nor will it be discussed outside this house, I expect,” Mr. Edgar peered over his glasses at every man and woman, silently committing them to discretion, “but during the evening, Lord Bettany suffered a heart attack.”

Shock rippled through the servants, everyone whispering and declaring surprise and whatnot. A few of the Catholics crossed themselves. 

“Lord Bettany is dead,” Mr. Edgar said gravely. 

At this, the room erupted in talk. Russ didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stared at Mr. Edgar, waiting for more. Waiting to hear what had become of Paul. The servants would _not_ shut up, however, and so he got to his feet. “Shut it!” he cried. The room went still – a few of the women balked. 

Russ cleared his throat. “Now, Mister Edgar. What has become of Master Paul?”

“I’m getting to that, Mister Crowe. He’s going to be all right. Doctor Irons has made arrangements for the elder Lord Bettany to be laid out in his bedroom until the undertaker can come in the morning. Kenny, lad, I’ll be sending you to town at first light and you must be quick about it. Lady Bettany…” here Mr. Edgar faltered, “is taking the news extremely well. However, Jenny Isaacs is most distraught. I expect there will be tears through the night, and I do so hope you will remain respectful and extra diligent in your service for the next few days.”

“Is Master Paul all right? Physically? From the argument?” Russell asked. 

Mr. Edgar peered sharply over his glasses. “He’s suffered some bruises and is in shock, Mister Crowe, but as I said, the doctor is with him.”

Russ did not have a long wick when it came to his temper, normally. At this point, he was ready to explode. Had Dr. Irons not already been by Paul’s side, Russ probably would have taken the manor apart stone by stone. “Is there anything further we might do? Perhaps I might see Master Paul?”

“You are most kind, Mister Crowe, but he is with his family at present. And that reminds me, everyone – as Christopher Bettany has passed away, the heir to the manor is Master Paul. By rights and etiquette, we must now refer to him as Lord Bettany.”

Another cluster of murmurs. Russell sort of slunk against the wall. Lord Bettany. Paul had come into his inheritance at twenty-seven years old. A disaster for most young men – peril, both financial and marital, of every kind ahead of him. Damnation. 

Paul himself was probably not taking this well. If only he could get into the bloody room!

Mr. Edgar coughed. “I know this is all very shocking. I’ll not ask anyone to pretend otherwise. Lady’s maids and groomsmen – your bell might ring at an odd hour tonight. Attend it. The rest of you, please return to your beds. The call to rise will come earlier than usual. There is much to be prepared in way of the funeral and the wake. Lady Bettany can’t be expected to shoulder it all. I know each and every one of you. Most of you I’ve hand-picked. I know you serve this family faithfully. Paul Bettany… is now your new master. He is very kind, and I will not see him taken advantage of by gossip or shirking duties. I will expect discipline and sobriety of you, more so than usual. Goodnight.”

Russ was the first out of the room, and while the others gathered together to talk over the news and filter slowly back to the servants’ quarters, he took the stairs two by two and headed straight for Paul’s room. Paul was not there. But the tell-tale signs of a struggle were. Ink on the carpet. A few scraps of paper. Nicks in the music table. A splinter of wood – where was the cello?

“Looks like Mr. Edgar has been very thorough indeed,” he muttered. Poor Paul.

He sat on the bed for what seemed like hours, not daring to fall asleep, until at last he heard footsteps down the hall. Paul entered looking haggard and –

“Your _face_!” Russell gasped.

Paul froze and then relaxed when he recognized Russ. “Russell,” he whispered and quietly closed the door. A shaking hand came up then; Paul rubbed his forehead. 

“I am glad he’s dead,” Russ growled. “I would have killed him myself.”

Paul winced. “Please,” he strained. 

Russ went over to him, opened his arms, but Paul stepped away from him, backing up to the door. “Love?”

“I didn’t think I had any tears left in me,” Paul whispered. “It hurts to cry now. My eyes are raw.”

“My love,” Russ said, stepping forward. Again Paul backed away until he was flush up against the door. “What’s the matter?”

“I… I… I just need to be alone for a little while,” Paul choked out. “Please. Please, Russ, please….”

He had no idea what to do. Paul looked like he would climb the wall if Russ tried to touch him. Whatever it was that had happened tonight, it had traumatized him. “All right.” He backed away. “Do you want me to go, then?” He tried not to sound harsh.

Eyes closed, Paul nodded. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I just need… I just….”

“It’s all right, Paul,” Russ said softly. It didn’t look like the younger man was going to move from the door anytime soon, so Russ walked over to the window. “Tomorrow, after the funeral.”

Paul made a gulping sound and nodded rapidly. 

“Are you _sure_ you don’t want me to stay? Just to talk? Or not to talk, just to stay?” He bit his lip; he was babbling. More frustrating than anything else in his life, Russell had no idea how to comfort Paul best at the moment.

Those blue eyes were almost black with the rounds of pupil. “Tomorrow.”

“All right.” One last look and then he slipped out the window and carefully down the lattice to the back grounds.

~*~

But the next morning Paul did not leave his rooms. He did not eat, and he would only speak to Dr. Irons or Mr. Edgar about the bare essentials in planning the funeral. This, Russell learned from Mrs. Davies when he went to get fresh vegetables for the horses and returned Charlie’s suit to its closet. In all the excitement, it hadn’t been missed. Apparently Viggo knew how to wash and press clothing, which in and of itself was remarkable. But especially for an American. 

The service was planned for the next day at the parish one mile west of North Ember. Paul still did not stir from his rooms, and his window remained shut, despite the humidity of August. Russ looked up from his place in the livery every few minutes, silently willing Paul to open up, let him in, but to no use. Paul was like a star, cold, bright, and unreachable.

Worse, he couldn’t simply stride up to the tower, as his instincts insisted, because the house was a flurry of activity – servants everywhere, cleaning, readying the house for the guests attending the wake. Lady Bettany even began sorting through her late husband’s things. Like she couldn’t wait to erase him from memory. Not that he could blame her.

Russ had heard that Paul’s sister was inconsolable. He didn’t think she was close to her father, but then again, Jenny was rumored to have a good and kind heart. Perhaps she grieved for the man she believed him to be, instead of for the man that Russell and Paul knew. Still, Paul remained an utter mystery. 

He was so preoccupied with his thoughts of Paul that he hadn’t noticed at first that Max was back in the stables, his arm still in a sling, helping Sean and Viggo with various odd tasks Russ had been neglecting since two days ago. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“Christ, mate, it’s a broke arm, is all. He’s not going to wither up and die from walking a bit.” Sean grinned at him. “You old mother hen.”

“Doctor Irons _insisted_ he lay in bed and I agree with his assessment.” Russ did not like having his authority challenged on the best of days. Today, it was outright mutiny. 

“Aw, sir, I feel well. I’m starting to get bed sores. Let me —”

“You’ll do as I say!” he barked. Sean and Max froze; Viggo sighed and continued to sift hay. 

“Yes, sir,” Max said, hanging his head. He put down the rope he’d been holding for Sean and made his way to the path for the woodhouse.

Sean began, “Russ —”

“Not one damned word, or so help me…” Russ glared.

“You don’t frighten me, you tom cat. You want to pick a fight, I’m happy to knock you down a peg.” Sean puffed up, folding his arms. “The boy needs some fresh air and company. He needs to feel useful. You can’t shut him up in the woodhouse and expect him not to be miserable, mate.”

“Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater,” Viggo said to the pitchfork.

Russ opened his mouth to inform Sean that his lover was totally insane, but as it was universally accepted as fact already, he just sighed. “Pirkis,” he raised his voice.

The boy stopped and turned around.

“Don’t lift anything. Don’t twist anything. In fact, sit on a bucket and just watch, all right?” He rubbed his forehead and checked the tower – window still closed. “Damn the man and his insufferable stubbornness.” 

“Who does he take after, I wonder?” Bean grinned. Viggo wisely kept his face impassive, but Russ had since learned to read that twinkle in his eye. 

“He won’t see me,” he whined. 

Sean shrugged. “He just watched his father keel over. Maybe you’re not what he needs right now.”

“Or maybe you’re exactly what he needs, but he’s denying it to himself because he feels responsible,” Viggo murmured. Russ had to lean forward to make that out. The man almost never spoke up. It made Russ feel deaf. “It hardly matters; he’s the lord here, right? So down here you’ll stay until he’s ready to have you come up.”

Russ got up and paced. He looked at Max, looked at Bean. Nothing for it. “I’m going to talk a walk.”

~*~

The following day was the funeral. Half the county showed up. The servants all came, of course, in their Sunday best, but they sat in the back of the church and were shuffled off to the sidelines during the actual burial. 

Lady Bettany’s face was carved stone. Jenny clung to her husband, who actually seemed a little bit sorry to see Christopher Bettany go – no doubt lamenting that Paul was now lord and master of one of the richest manors in the county and no longer subject to any will but his own. Paul himself looked waif-like and drawn, but the bruising had gone down. He leaned heavily on Duke Everett during the burial and, if possible, looked even more pale by the last prayer.

The wake was a somber affair, he was told. Only the butlers that saw to the guest’s things and served drinks attended. Dr. Irons came round to the servant’s hall specifically to see him. 

“I wanted to say goodbye, dear fellow. Sir Isaacs is leaving right after this.”

Russ nodded. “Jenny Isaacs, too?”

“I believe so.”

Russ drew Dr. Irons to the side. “How is he?”

“You’ve seen him. It speaks for itself. He’s withdrawn, agitated, shocked. Paul is a very sensitive young man.” Dr. Irons fiddled with his gloves. “Things such as this change a person.”

Russell was very uneasy, then. “Oh?”

Dr. Irons nodded and sighed. “I gave him a powder to help him sleep – I don’t think he’s taking it. I’ve no idea what he’s doing other than sitting still up in that room – there’s been no music.”

Russ nodded. “His cello?”

“Broken. Along with all his music, destroyed.”

“His _music_?” Fresh anger coursed through him. Damn Christopher Bettany. “That bastard.”

“Quite.” Dr. Irons smiled. “I’ve recommended to Paul that he consider taking a trip. Anywhere, really. Sometimes the sensation of motion calms agitated nerves. I believe he will need to get away from this place for a while. Too many memories. Too many… responsibilities.”

He looked at the older man for a long time. “D’you mean me? I’ll not be a burden to him.”

“My dear Mister Crowe. You are the one thing in Paul’s world at this very moment that is not bleak, depressing, or punishing. Of _course_ he’ll not want you. The lad is being very severe on himself. He thinks Christopher Bettany died from the shock of seeing the two of you.”

Russ rocked back on his heels. “He said this?”

“Not in so many words.” Dr. Irons grimaced. “He wouldn’t mention you. I believe that was why Lord Bettany… well. You saw his face.”

Russ squeezed his fists so hard his knuckles cracked. “I hope he rots in hell.”

Dr. Irons’ mouth twitched. “Almost assured.” 

“What should I do, Doctor? How can I help him? You must give me an occupation, I cannot bear being so helpless.”

The older man sighed deeply. “Paul is going to have to wrestle this demon alone, it seems. Let him go on his trip. I’ve already discussed it with Duke Everett – they will go away on a holiday. He’ll recuperate his strength, find his resolve again. Discover a great big world beyond his tiny little tower. And then, when he’s back, you’ve only to be there. Ready, should you give him ease.”

This saddened Russell more deeply than he would ever admit. “Where will he go? How far away? For how long?”

“I’m a doctor, Mister Crowe, not a fortune teller.” Dr. Irons smiled gently. “It doesn’t matter where. For as long as he needs.”

“And I’m to just… wait?”

“You know the adage – let something go and if it comes back….”

“He’s mine,” Russ whispered.

“I’ve left instructions for meals and medicines for all the Bettanys with Mister Edgar. I assume you’re following my advice for Master Pirkis?”

“Not really,” Russ said simply. “The boy is out of bed but I won’t let him walk far or touch anything. He’ll heal up fine.”

“He’s a sturdy fellow. I do wish you were closer so that I might check in on him again.” Dr. Irons held out his hand and Russ shook it. “Well, I must take your leave. Sir Isaacs will be waiting.”

Russ watched, heart sinking, as Dr. Irons walked away. If Sir Isaacs was leaving, then so were Sean and Viggo. He left the servant’s quarters and hurried to the stables just in time. Sean and Viggo had packed their one bag, prepared Isaac’s carriage up front, and were saying goodbye to Max and the horses. He shook Viggo’s hand and gave Sean a huge bear hug.

“I know I need never say it, but thank you,” Russ said to Sean. “I’ve one more favor to ask of you.”

Sean nodded.

“Pirkis, come here, lad.” The boy came to Russell obediently enough, if somewhat reluctantly. “I’m going to send you to stay with Sean and Viggo for a bit.”

“But —”

“Just for a bit. Lord Bettany is going on a trip.”

Everyone stopped short at this.

“He’ll not be able to continue your lessons. But Viggo is a professional racer. You’ll be able to get much more from him than from me right now. And you’ll be close to Doctor Irons, so that he might look after that arm.”

“But —”

Russ didn’t listen. He climbed up into the loft of the stable and began thrusting the essentials of Max’s clothing and a few books into an empty sack. He packed until it was full, then climbed down, and the lad was still talking.

“You can’t send me away. You’ll be lonely. Besides, I belong with _you_!”

He gently laid his hands on the boy’s shoulders and crouched down so they were face to face. “You belong… with your father.” He looked over at Sean – watched as the man swallowed and nodded – and then he brushed the hair back from Max’s forehead. “For now, at least.”

Max looked back and forth, tears forming. “What… but _you’re_ ….”

He kissed the boy’s forehead and straightened up. “Just for a few weeks, Max. I’ll come for you, I promise.” He handed the bag to Sean. “You need to get to know your Da.”

Viggo whistled low and cut right between Russ and Sean. “Well. Apparently we’ve all a lot to talk about, little man. But for right now, the carriage is leaving and you need to dry those eyes. Come on.” Viggo took the boy’s good hand and nodded to Sean, leading Max off to the front of the house.

Russ knew without having to look that the kid was staring behind at him the whole way. He kept his gaze on Sean however.

“Are you certain about this, Rusty?”

He nodded. “It’s time. I got the last five years. You can have a few weeks.” A bitter smile. “I want him back. I’m not giving, I’m just sharing. Right, mate?”

Sean sniffed and looked down. “I thought he might be mine… But you’d seemed so attached. The way you cut through everything that day at the track to get to him. I figured he must have been yours. But then you said Elizabeth… and… I didn’t want to intrude.”

Russ shook his head, aware their time was running out. “Family’s family.”

“Aye.” Sean dashed forward and hugged him hard – God, it reminded him of when they were kids. “I’ll take good care of him, Russ, you know that.”

“I do. Otherwise I’ll have your hide. Now sod off.” He pushed Sean away and turned sharply up the path to the woodhouse. His heart ached.

He closed the door against the world, pulled out his violin, and played to cover the sound of sorrow emanating from _him_.

~*~

The next day the manor was eerily silent. All the mourners, gone home. Jenny and Isaacs, gone home. Sean and Viggo and Max, with them. Lady Bettany ordered her maids to prepare her things to spend the autumn and winter in her townhouse just outside of London. And Paul _finally_ left his room – spending the day and night at Duke Everett’s house. 

No doubt planning their bloody holiday.

Russ had effectively been shut out, turned away like a dog that had worn out his master’s favor. He resented it deeply, and was sure to smother that feeling with many swigs of hard cider. He sat all day in the woodhouse – house, not a home – not without Paul.

He got blinding drunk, cursed himself for a fool, and passed out on the bed with his violin cradled to his chest.

The next afternoon he woke up, washed, shaved, and went to the house determined to demand that Paul speak with him. He got as far as the second floor before Mr. Edgar stopped him. 

“He’s gone, Mister Crowe!”

“Gone? Where? Still at Duke Everett’s?”

“His grace took Lord Bettany this very morning on a trip —”

Russ got right up in the old man’s face, until he would see every line and wrinkle. “Where?”

“A tour of the continent.” Mr. Edgar tugged his coat down to straighten it out. 

“A – the – what the bloody hell?” Russ bellowed. 

“Keep your voice down, sir! Lady Bettany is still about in her chambers! This house will be empty of the family by midweek, and I suggest you learn to control yourself until then.”

“What… He can’t just _leave_ , damn it. What about… the horses?” he finished lamely.

Mr. Edgar stared at him like he was quite mad. “I’d expect,” he said cuttingly, “that in the wake of this tragedy, the _horses_ matter very little. I’ve been given no instruction to let you go, but if you persist in this manner —”

Russell waved off the end of that sentence. He honestly didn’t care. “You’re telling me that Lord Bettany inherited this manor two days ago, and, all of a sudden, took up with Duke Everett to tour Europe?”

“It’s not our place to sit in judgment of the master —”

“Isn’t there a will to read? Lawyers to see? Papers to be signed, at least?”

“Lady Bettany took care of all that right after the wake. Everything has been transferred to Lord Bettany’s name – she has kept her house in London.” Mr. Edgar stopped short. “I don’t see how any of this is of the remotest concern to the horse-master.”

Russ stood in the hallway, staring out the window at the brilliant sunshine, at the way it mocked him. For a moment, his mind flashed back to the water-drops glistening on Paul’s wrist as they made love under the pier. “He left without saying goodbye.”

Mr. Edgar’s eyebrows shot up. “I’d no idea you were so… close, Mister Crowe. Truth be told, I’d no idea you’d liked the company of much of anyone at all.” Mr. Edgar smiled warmly. “But then, Lord Bettany has a way of charming everyone about him, doesn’t he, sir? You must forgive him for his abrupt departure. I am certain he did not behave badly knowingly or willingly. The last few days have been very hard on him, and he’s such a young man.”

Russ’s shoulders sagged. “This is madness.”

“Oh no. This is just what Doctor Irons sad was the very best thing. He was concerned that guilt would drive Lord Bettany to self-harm, did you know? Well, knowing that you’re his friend, I don’t mind telling you, but it must go no further. Lord Bettany was deeply grieved at whatever transpired between him and his father before his father’s… death.” Mr. Edgar pivoted slightly, turning to go. “I think perhaps some time, new sights, and a great deal of Duke Everett’s company will put him in much higher spirits, when he returns.”

“Whenever that may be.” Russ felt nauseated. 

“Oh, I expect they’ll be back in time for Christmas, sir. Lord Bettany has never spent a Christmas apart from his sister. Especially now that the family is… well. I expect he’ll return in December. Perhaps in time for his birthday?”

“Five months,” Russ mumbled to himself, drawing up his walls, forcing himself to retake control. “Very well. Five months.” He straightened. “I shall wait.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Gypsy’s Wagon**

The days leading up to his journey unraveled faster than a ball of twine. Paul remembered it in a series of objects. A needle in his leg followed by a cup of coffee held under his nose. A clump of dirt in his fist, which he scattered over Lord Bettany’s grave. The perfume on Jenny’s wrist; her hot tears soaking his breast pocket. And papers.

There were so many, many papers. After the wake when the guests had gone home, Mother called for him in the drawing room. She had assembled her lawyers – how they got down from London so quickly was anyone’s guess – and they stood before him in a line. They talked, endlessly, and Paul retained some of it. The manor was his, the grounds were his, the little beach house, his. Mother asked to keep her townhouse and of course he’d agreed. She also recommended stipulating the annual sum of Jenny’s dowry and he yielded to whatever she thought best. 

“Is any of this even legal?” he murmured. “Seeing as how I am a bastard?”

The lawyers froze and Mother looked… less than shocked but far from pleased. “Gentlemen, would you give us a moment?”

The barristers hastily withdrew from the room; Paul watched them go with some amusement. They waddled like ducks. 

“I fail to find anything amusing, Paulie.”

“Paul,” he said, turning back to face her. “I prefer Paul.”

She nodded. “Let us pretend for a moment, Paul, that you are not a fool hell bent on self-destruction. Whatever are you thinking, announcing you are a bastard on the day of your inheritance?”

Paul shrugged. “I’m thinking… it’s the truth? It is, isn’t in, Mother? I’m not Christopher Bettany’s son.”

She sat there with pursed lips for quite some time. “No. You are not.”

He nodded mutely. “And whose son am I?”

Mother didn’t answer. 

He smiled cruelly. “A chance encounter then? At a masked ball?”

“So, you did have a row. I see Christopher had much to say before he did us all a very great favor and died.”

Paul was shocked. “Mother….”

“Dear boy, were you under the impression that I loved him? I respected him, and that is all I can say.”

“Resp…?” He frowned and shook his head.

She sighed, as if having to explain it all was rather tedious. “His grandfather had a great deal of money and bought himself a title. His father moved them to this county. And he made the family fortune prosper and kept the name respectable, at least. We Redgraves have a very ancient line, but there is little money left. I married him. I gave him children. He had his pursuits, and I had mine. There was an understanding.” Mother swallowed. She suddenly looked very old. 

_Have you no understanding of the ways of the world of men?_

Paul put his head in his hands. “I’m not sure I can entertain this.” He cleared his throat. “I am… a bastard.” It sounded less real every time he said it.

“Yes, dear.” Mother sighed. “He was a musician I think, if that helps. At a ball some twenty-eight years ago. What does it matter? No one outside of this room knows – be sure to tell the lawyers you were merely being critical of your character. You stand to inherit a great fortune and stature. So be a Bettany. I haven’t any other last name to give you.” 

Paul closed his eyes. He felt faint. 

“Paul, let us speak plainly.”

“You haven’t been forthcoming enough _yet_?”

Mother tsked him. “Don’t be a tyrant. I am going to settle in London. I do not like this manor much, there is too little to do here. With your father gone, I am bound by nothing. The house is yours. Everything is yours. All I ask is that you look after your sister, as she is subject to the kindness of her husband.”

“I doubt his character with every breath,” Paul muttered. “I’ll see to it Jenny always has… security. And you, as well. I should think a thousand a year would do you.”

She nodded. “Very good of you, Paul.”

He took a deep breath. “Doctor Irons suggested at the wake that I take a holiday. Get away for a while. Clear my head.”

She squinted. “Your health?”

An insane giggle bubbled up from him. “Mother. If I stay here, I think I shall go mad. I think I _am_ going mad.”

Sighing, she came to his chair and put her hand on his shoulder. “We all do, from time to time. Take your trip, then.” She moved to the door. “I’ll call the lawyers in and you can sign the papers and have done.”

“What if I never marry?” he called out. She froze. “What if I…” He stood to face her. “What if I am… what you and he always suspected of me?”

Vanessa Redgrave’s eyes held his – how had he never seen this shrewd spark about her before? “Then we’d all better hope your sister has a son.”

Paul gave a mirthless half-grin. “Perhaps she’ll get somewhere with the Suffrage.”

“Isn’t that a pretty wish?” She opened the door and summoned the gentlemen back. 

He signed the papers and went immediately over to North Ember. Rupert and Helena were all kindness, doting on him, touching him every few moments. Rupert kept insisting the best was yet to come, now that his father was gone. Helena, for once, wasn’t flip about anything. 

“We shall go to the continent, Paul, my dearest friend.” Rupert shook him by the shoulder. “I shall show you all the sights. By the time we have you home again, you’ll be a man of the world!”

“A man of the world,” Paul murmured. He smiled. “Yes. I should like that, Ev. Thank you… thank you for taking care of me.” 

“Aw, pretty pet.” Helena kissed him on the cheek. “I shall miss you both.” 

Rupert insisted he eat a little something and then tucked him into one of the guest rooms. He slept fitfully, but at least away from the manor, he slept. 

The next day he prepared for the journey with the stars still winking overhead. He felt like a thief. Like he was stealing his own future, right out from under Russell’s nose. But for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to go to the woodhouse. He didn’t want strong arms and a soft voice. No kisses. No love. He wanted to be hard and cold and lonely, for a while. He wanted… motion. That was what Dr. Irons had said. 

Like a shark, if he stopped moving, he would die. If he let himself feel, it would break him.

So without so much as a note, he packed a bag and two trunks worth of clothing and money and left Mr. Edgar minimal instructions as to the house and the transferring bank funds to his sister and Mother. Mentioned a vague hint that he might return for Christmas, and then he met Rupert’s carriage at the front door. He did not look back as they turned around the bend – if he had, he would have seen Thistle Hawk enveloped in the blazing pink of a new dawn. 

~*~

They began in Paris. Paul had to confess that, despite the devastation he’d come out of, no one could be gloomy for very long in Paris. Rupert walked him all around town the first day – even took him to the Bohemian village. Artists and actors and whores and all sorts of colorful characters eager to get inside a man’s purse lined the streets. Paul had never seen such blatant – well – _everything_. Outrageous fashions. Bawdy behavior. The _language_ \-- he was beginning to regret being fluent in French. 

Or so he thought. Apparently his accent offended the locals, even if they could understand what he was saying. 

Rupert giggled at them, occasionally referred to them as frogs, and was sure to take him shopping during the day and to the opera at night. At first, hearing music made Paul ache a bit. His hands twitched for his piano, his broken cello. But that wasn’t the sort of thing one could say to a friend like Rupert. So he endured. By the fourth night, it got better. He was just starting to get used to Paris.

Which was exactly when Rupert purchased train tickets and whisked them off to Belgium. Bruges was a gorgeous little town, like stepping into another century altogether. Paul was charmed by their music and their wooden puppets and the _food_. Rupert ordered plate after plate of warmed potatoes, _dame blanches_ \-- which were a sort of iced cream confection that made Paul salivate at the mere mention -- and excellent cheese. He managed to buy some lace for Jenny. They didn’t stay in Bruges long, however, as Rupert complained there was no ‘night life.’

They headed on, railing to Germany. Berlin was loud and somewhat frightening to Paul, but he didn’t want to disappoint Rupert, who was enchanted with all the clubs and their various sorts of entertainment. Paul took to blushing regularly whenever Rupert dragged him to a cabaret, but he had to admit, he enjoyed himself, if only because Rupert was so very merry about it all. It was in the early mornings, when Rupert lay sleeping in the next bed over, that he missed home, missed Russell. 

A few days after Berlin, they went to Munich. The contrast was stark. Munich was a city of museums and marble, stale opera houses and carriage parks. Paul physically felt time slow down there. He’d expressed an interest in German beer off the cuff, and the next thing he knew, Rupert had him standing at a high table in the Beer Gardens, getting absolutely soused. He fell into his friend’s arms and laughed the entire way back to their hotel. It felt good to be drunk. Rupert was a very good sort of chap who was kind enough to throw a blanket over his face when he passed out on the floor. 

Considering the resulting headache, Paul resolved not to drink like that again.

Next they trained through Switzerland but the miles and miles of woods made Paul think of Russell and he didn’t want that. He was restless, and begged Rupert to find him another grand city. They stopped for a day in Salzburg, riding up and down the river in a ferry boat. Rupert sampled wine and Paul spent most of the trip looking at the monastery-fortress on the high hill. 

Eventually Rupert slapped his hand down on their table. “Vienna.”

“What?” Paul blinked. 

Rupert squinted at him in the sun. “Vienna is your city, Paul. We must go there tomorrow. You will love it. Music fills the streets. The architecture outstrips all Europe. The _palace_ , dear one, is enough to make the trip worthwhile. Vienna is where we shall go next. Now have some of my gooseberries.”

Paul smiled and ate a handful of berries. “You are very good to me, Ev.”

“Do remember that when the debtors come to call.” Rupert winked. 

Vienna was everything Rupert had promised, and much more. Paul had noted that the attitude of the Europeans was much more relaxed and frank than at home in England, but in Vienna, there was still a high sense of propriety and social order. And Paul liked that, somewhat. He wasn’t stuffy, Lord no, but manners, civility. Grace. Those were things he naturally responded to. And Vienna sparkled like a jewel in the crown of the continent.

Rupert took him around on horse-drawn cable cars. They went to the opera whenever possible – such music, Paul almost couldn’t bear its beauty. His friend even went out of his way to get him a tour of Mozart’s house and the birthplace of Beethoven’s first symphonic performance. At night they would go for long walks, and through almost every window you could see bright lights and couples dancing. It was the waltzing season, when everyone who was anyone threw elaborate parties where the young and old of the city would come to whirl madly about the floor until two, three, four o’clock in the morning. 

He was enchanted. Here he could be his true self, shed the Bettany skin and be Paul, the composer. Paul, the bachelor. Paul, student of the world. And all his years of study had seemed to prepare him for these weeks. The art, the history, the languages – a second nature to him, now. As natural as breathing. He soaked in Vienna until it came out of his pores. 

Rupert laughed at him often. Laughed at his childlike fascination with everything. At his daring – wanting to try new foods, climb tall hills, pose for portraits, listen to street performers. Rupert shopped, he spent enormous sums of Jacobi money on presents to send home to Helena. Paul, however, spent _time_. 

Time in the great library. Time at concerts in rich people’s chamber rooms. Time talking for hours and hours with great musicians and artists at little wooden tables in various little wooden restaurants. All this time he was spending, he was changing. His confidence grew. He stopped blushing when he spoke about his music. The more he saw of the world – the more he saw men like himself, men _holding hands_ on the street at night, even – the less he felt like a singular creature. But he hadn’t thought to act differently until Rupert whispered in his ear. 

“See something that strikes your fancy, Paul?” Rupert chuckled. “A pretty lady or lad, perhaps? Why don’t you go over and chat one up?” He nodded toward a cluster of students and artists at one of their favorite bars. 

Paul ducked his head. “Christ, Ev, I haven’t a clue about things like that.”

“It’s quite simple, dearest. You needn’t even say anything at all. Let your eyes do the talking.” Ev stared at him then, smiling softly, and then leaned over the table and pressed his mouth gently against Paul’s. “I’m going in. Wish me luck.”

He watched Rupert get up and stalk after a young, blond man who, judging by the amount of paint on his trousers, was an artist of some sort. They traded words for less than a minute and then left toward the back door. Rupert winked over his shoulder. Paul shook his head – he’d no idea, really, only suspicions – and why hadn’t Everett ever thought to chat him up? Not that he’d wanted to be chatted up, of course, but, what was so unsatisfactory about him? He was blond. He was young. 

“Your friend has left you?” a tall man asked in German, coming over to the table. “Is he usually so cruel?”

The man motioned to sit and Paul nodded out of habit. “Ah, let’s see if I remember my German – uh –”

“We can talk in English if you prefer,” the man said. 

Paul smiled. “Thank you. It’s been years since my German lessons and I’ve kept to myself since staying in Austria, I’m afraid.” 

“What a shame.” The man’s accent was gorgeous. It caressed down Paul’s spine. “I am Gabriel. Gabriel Byrne.”

“Paul. Bettany.” They shook hands. 

“And what are you doing so far from home, Paul Bettany?” Gabriel smiled. 

“I’m… enjoying being far from home.” Paul gave a shy little grin. 

“Ha! How delightful. Yes.” Gabriel nodded to where Rupert had left with the artist. “Is he coming back for you?”

“I expect so. If not, I know how to get back to our hotel.”

Gabriel looked down at his cane for a moment and then back up at Paul. “Forgive me if I am being forward, but… is it customary for you to allow your lover to have… other engagements?”

Paul did blush a little then. “He is only my friend. My very dear friend.” 

“Ah. I confess I am very glad to hear it. One so young and pretty as you should not know heartbreak so early in life – it will leave you, how do they say it? Like jade?”

“Jaded,” Paul said, chagrined. Christ. Was he really doing this?

“Paul, again you must tell me if I am too forward but, might I invite you to my hotel? We might go there where it is quiet and get to know one another better….”

Not knowing what to do, he looked after Rupert. 

“Of course, I might have been presumptuous…” Gabriel smiled shyly.

Paul sighed, making a decision. “Not at all. I’d be delighted. Is it very far?”

Gabriel grinned. “Right across the street.”

Paul let himself be led by whatever invisible thread the German had tied around him, until he was across the street, up very narrow stairs, and standing in a room painted pale yellow with white trim. Gabriel had stacks of papers about, covering all available furniture, including the chairs. 

“What’s all this?” Paul asked.

“I am a writer. Sometimes I teach philosophy at the university.” Gabriel stepped closer. “I’d offer you a place to sit down, but that would be a waste of time.”

Paul sucked in a breath as Gabriel moved into his space, their chests brushing – he’d not realized how tall and solid the man was while they’d sat down at the table – and then Gabriel’s hands were sliding down his back. 

On the one hand, it was nice to know he was found attractive by such a charismatic man. But on the other – a casual encounter? With a stranger? Had his father been right about him? He stiffened when Gabriel leaned in for a kiss.

“You do not do that, Paul?” Gabriel whispered, kissing his cheek instead. “Forgive me.” The kisses continued down his neck, and oh, they were soft and deadly, the man’s fingertips now ghosting under his shirt and up the bare skin of his back. “I’m a poor man, Paul, but you’re worth whatever the cost.”

He reeled. His hands came up, stopped Gabriel. “I’m not… I don’t… I’m no whore.”

Gabriel peered at his face. “Then why will you not let me kiss you? Is it your first time, liebe?” 

Paul swallowed and shook his head. Christ, he was behaving such that this man mistook him for a _whore_. 

“I’ve insulted you, forgive me.” Gabriel looked most apologetic. “I thought, when you wouldn’t let me….”

“I’ve insulted myself, I think.” Paul drew back. “It was clumsy of me to even attempt this.” Embarrassed beyond belief, he tucked his shirt back in and started walking backward to the door. “I’m so sorry, Gabriel. I don’t think I can do this.”

Gabriel smiled sadly. “No, I don’t think so either. When a man is in love….”

Paul’s head shot up suddenly. 

“He cannot betray his lover.” 

He frowned. “I told you, Ev is not my lover.”

“I am not speaking of… Ev. I am speaking of whoever has put those circles under your eyes. Whoever has made your ribs lean and your cheek pale. Whoever it is you’re hiding from, here in Vienna.” Gabriel approached him and petted his hair off his forehead. “All the kilometers in the world aren’t going to be enough to get him out of your heart, I’d wager.”

“How can you know this?”

The man shrugged. “I am a student of human nature. Poor young man. You should go home.” Gabriel kissed both his cheeks and nudged him toward the door. “If I end up being wrong? -- and it happens on occasion -- I do hope you will think to remember me, and come back. My door is always open to you.” 

Paul looked down, ashamed that he was so easily read, that he had put this kind man out like this. “I’m sorry.”

“Never apologize for love, liebe.” Gabriel chuckled. “That is also a waste of time. Go.”

Paul quickly kissed Gabriel’s cheek and then flew down the stairs and across the street to the pub. Rupert was there, taking care of the tab. 

“There you are, you dog. Did you find a bit?” Rupert grinned. 

Paul shook his head. “Went for a walk. Cleared my head. Do you think it’s about time to move on, now, Ev?”

“I’m just getting us even now, pet.” Rupert handed the barman a purple bill. 

“I meant…” Paul bit his lip. “I meant, leave Austria.”

Rupert looked at him, assessing, and then broke out in a sloppy grin. “Christ, yes. This city is too clean and polite for me. I just thought you were enjoying yourself so much here. I’ve an idea where to go next, Paul dear.”

Paul grinned. “You’d have me hop on a train tonight, you’ve no patience. I need to get some of my things pressed and we’ll have to buy some food for the trip. Let’s go the day after tomorrow.”

Rupert got his change, hooked an arm around Paul, and steered them to the street. “Excellent.”

“Where are we going that’s messy and rude enough for you?” Paul asked pleasantly.

“Italy.”

“Right-o.”

The train ride was actually quite lovely. The trees were thinner, of a lighter green the closer they got to the Mediterranean country. Paul enjoyed looking at the abandoned villas on the hillside from his window. Rupert had ordered them a sleeping car and it was quite nice, if tight. He wondered if it was anything like the berth of a ship that Russ might have sailed, but he was doing his very, very best not to think of Russell Crowe these last few weeks. He’d gone almost two months with only a few erotic dreams and an occasional fantasy while waiting for a train or a carriage. He was learning discipline, he told himself. 

They stopped first in Venice. _That_ was a city built for Rupert. Everything in excess – the paint on the houses, the bizarre shapes of the gondolas, the wares to be purchased in the marketplace. Even the conversations people had seemed to border on the histrionic, wild gesticulations and punctuated Italian everywhere they looked. Paul insisted on going inside the San Marco, and then let Rupert have his way while they toured the leather shops. He bought a blue cameo necklace for Jenny and a ring for mother. Reluctantly, he got Jason a hand-decorated pack of playing cards. Rupert seemed to have bought the whole city. He certainly made a fast and friendly reputation among the Italians. 

He was almost sorry to move on four days later, but the stink of the canals was starting to give him a headache. And the cats. He loved cats, he truly did, but they were everywhere in the city and his allergies suffered. Round about the third day there, Paul was certain his head was going to explode. He would have complained, but Rupert was having such a wonderful time. 

“This place is so _bella_ ,” Rupert said, imitating one of the vendors as he handed Paul a cluster of grapes, each as big as a man’s thumb. “And the food. Heavens, it’s good to eat something other than wurst, for the love of Christ. Say you’ll dine with me tonight, Paul. I _must_ get you to try calamari.”

Paul smiled lazily, his cheek resting on his open palm. “Naturally you shall.” It was warm, they were sitting outside on some steps overlooking the bay, the inhabitants of Venice all gone inside for siesta. Paul fed Rupert a grape. “And then we will keep going, yes?”

Rupert peered down at him. “You’re the captain of this voyage. I’m the first mate.”

Paul squinted. “I’d always pictured you more like the rudder.” He laughed when Rupert kicked him. 

“What do you know? Lubber!” Rupert said theatrically. They lazed about in the sun, walked some more, and that night Paul had a bowl full of steaming pasta, shrimp, and mussels, and even let Rupert feed him calamari. 

“It’s…” Paul swallowed with some difficulty. “Squishy.”

Rupert laughed. “It’s squid.”

“Augh,” Paul said, wincing playfully. Rupert ruffled his hair and stole some of his pasta, and it was round about that moment that Paul realized whatever it was that Christopher Bettany had broken in him was now on its way to mending. 

The following afternoon – in keeping with Duke Everett’s habit of not rising before noon unless absolutely necessary – they trained down to Florence. Paul was pleased with the many parks and fine avenues to walk in. Rupert began to complain of museums and cathedrals, but then insisted on seeing all of them. He’d also begun taking a very personal interest in Italian wines, and so most of the stay in Florence Paul remembered in a bright, warm, liquid haze. Whatever they’d got up to in that city, Paul could at least say he remembered laughing a good deal about it. 

“We should do Rome,” Rupert said suddenly, staring transfixed on the Duomo as they meandered through the market. Paul was busy looking over the hand-carved woodworks, the cellos in particular, and lamented that he couldn’t possibly lug one around Europe. 

“Why?”

“Because it’s there.” Rupert shrugged, as this was obvious logic. 

“All right.” Paul smiled and hooked his arm through his friend’s. “You’re the guide. D’you want to go in?”

“To another bloody cathedral?” Rupert asked, making a face. “Yes.”

Paul laughed. 

Rome was chaotic. Absolutely chaotic. The women were beautiful (and so were the men) and all of the city seemed to be operating on a giant merry-go-round, twirling about in circles around Paul. He was sure to hang on very tightly to Rupert the first few days, especially around the forum and coliseum. It was crawling with tourists from every country and rampant with pickpockets. Paul didn’t even bother – he just reached into his pocket, pulled out some lira, tossing it at the feet of a gaggle of young boys begging in the street. 

“Hm, that’s expedient,” Rupert said, looking back over his shoulder. 

Paul shrugged. “Anyone of them could be Max.”

“Who’s Max?”

Paul cleared his throat. “Let’s to the Vatican? We best get Saint Peter’s over with. If only Mother could see what a right good Catholic her son’s been converted into.” 

Rupert pretended not to be excited, but he walked at a quicker pace through the fountain plazas to get to the basilica. 

“What is it with you and churches, anyway?” Paul asked him, struggling to keep up.

“I’m very fond of stained glass.”

“Be serious.”

“Not if I can help it.” Rupert grinned. “Come on, dearest, church is all apocalypse and hell and resurrection and virgins and body of Christ and pictures of bleeding saints. Where’s your sense of _drama_?”

Paul received some glares for laughing so loud in the vicinity of holiness, so he sobered and straightened his tie when they entered. To be honest, he’d not seen so much marble or gilded gold plate in all of Europe. He hoped he didn’t offend the Lord, but that was just gaudy. 

Rupert started whispering hymns. Backwards.

“Stop it,” Paul shushed him. But Rupert just leaned closer and did it a little louder. 

Paul bit his lip hard to keep from laughing. “Ev, I mean it, be quiet.” 

Ev crooned in his ear, the words nonsense and Paul’s shoulders shook with the effort to keep the giggles in. “You’ve a bloody terrible singing voice,” he whispered harshly. 

“Mean,” Everett accused with a pout. “And in the house of _God_.” They genuflected and made their way to the Madonna statue. Rupert started up again, quieter, but Lord, it was funny. 

“Shut it!” Paul finally said. Everyone stopped praying to stare…. 

“I’ve never been thrown out of church, before,” Paul said, somewhat shocked, on the hard steps outside Saint Peter’s. The novices barked at them in Italian and then hurried back inside, no doubt to pray for their lost souls.

Rupert was laughing his damned fool head off. He jumped up on Paul’s back. “When you do something, you pull out all the stops, boy-o!”

Paul groaned – Rupert was a good deal taller and heavier than he – and limped forward. “I’ve a monkey on my back, someone help me!”

“I’ve not even got you drunk yet!” Rupert said merrily. “But it is good to see you unwind.”

“I’ve unwound so much it will be lucky if we don’t get kicked out of Italy, Ev.”

“Let’s run away again, then. Where else is there worth going? Think, Paul, think.” Ev clapped him on the back. “Where’s this gypsy caravan going?”

Paul thought for a moment, staring up at the bluest blue sky he’d ever seen in his life and wishing he could share that moment with Russ and Max. “Greece?”

“Ooh!” Rupert said. “Spanikopita and the Parthenon and beautiful boys in togas!”

“I rather think they don’t wear togas anymore.” Paul smiled apologetically. 

“Pity,” Rupert said. “Maybe there will be some sort of toga festival, there’s always hope. Though I guess not in October.”

Paul stopped. “Is it October already?”

“It will be October 16th tomorrow, Paulie boy.” Ev wiggled his eyebrows. “You’ve managed to put up with me for three whole months, it must be love.”

“I’d put it no higher than masochism, darling.” A smile. A wink and a nod, and soon Rupert had them on a boat to Greece. 

Paul found he did not particularly enjoy sea travel. Rupert was quick to remind him that the Mediterranean was choppy, but nothing like the water of the oceans, and Paul could only pray he didn’t have to find out for himself, because he felt positively ill. But they made it in one piece, and Rupert was very good in hiring a coach to take them over the hills and deep into the country. 

Greece was breathtaking and warm, but Paul missed the riot of colors autumn brought to England. They toured Ithica with a native guide. Paul didn’t expect there to be as many goats as there were, but he found it endearing. Rupert found it odious. Thessaly enchanted Paul – it was as if all those plays he’d read at Cambridge came to life. They spent three weeks traveling to Corinth, Athens, and Thebes. Paul thought he’d never get his fill of marble or bronze. And the Acropolis… Oh, the ruins were like coming home. 

He stood at the base of a statue of Athena, silently wishing for wisdom. Rupert stood there in his white sweater and white trousers, a soft breeze making the air slightly chilly. Paul looked down into the valley, marveling at the way time seemed to stop altogether. And suddenly, the memory of Russell taking him in the muck and the mud under the pier, water all around them, Russ driving deep into him, connecting with him like no one ever had before… pain shot across his face. God, he missed that man to the point of physical ache. 

“Are you ready, yet?” Rupert asked quietly. 

“I want to go home.” Paul turned to gauge his friend’s reaction.

But all Rupert did was nod. He followed the older man up the hill – they packed up their belongings that night and were headed to the train station the next morning. Rupert didn’t say much, then, which was unusual, but what Paul needed. Paul stared out the window until they reached Delphi. 

“One last stop,” Rupert murmured, pulling Paul out of his seat and off the train. They stored their trunks in a locker and took a long hike to the temple of Apollo. Rupert dragged Paul – stumbling, he was exhausted – down the Sacred Way and up the steps to the oracle’s well. 

“This is where you would ask a question, and the priests and priestess would return with an answer. Now, I’ve been watching you close, boy-o, for the better part of four months. It seems to me you’ve got a burning matter on your mind. So you ask the Gods your question, I’ll be down looking at the gymnasium, and then we’ll get you on that train home.” Rupert winked and walked off, leaving Paul to stand here.

Even in Greece, he could begin to feel the cold in the air. November. Time to head home. He was… better. But still so sad. Walking up the stairs, he peered over into the abyss of the oracle and bit his lip. He felt like a fool, but no one was around at the moment. 

So he asked, “How can I possibly have him?” He whispered it, but even so, his voice bounced down into the hollow, echoing off the unseen. The Gods hear everything, he thought. 

He closed his eyes and pictured home, thought of all that had passed this last year. He’d lost his sister to marriage, his father to death, his mother to… secrecy. And his lover because of his own selfish stupidity. God alone knew what Russ must think of him now. Or if Russ was even still at Thistle Hawk. He did have roving gypsy blood, after all. 

The sudden realization that Russell Crowe might not be there on his return made Paul’s blood run cold. Just, cold. He turned sharply and bounded off to find Rupert, anxious to leave. He tugged at his friend, prodded and whined until they booked a very long series of non-stop train rides back. It took forever. Paul almost never ventured from the sleeper car, but Rupert frequently went to stretch his legs. And to probably chat up the attractive members of the waiting staff, but Paul didn’t even turn his mind to it, at this point. All thoughts were of home. Of Russ. 

They were a few short hours from the shore of France when Rupert put an arm around him and kissed his forehead. “Did you get an answer to your question?”

Paul swallowed, looking out at the landscape now covered in light snow. “We’ll have to wait and see.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: Chords of Fate**

Russell did not fare that autumn well. With Max spending most of his time at Pembyrn with Sean, he withdrew deep into himself, speaking only to the horses, or Mr. Edgar when appropriate. He worked intensively – with no one at the manor to take an interest in racing, his duties only consisted of keeping the horses fed and well exercised and the stable and livery in good order. Most of the staff worked light hours or went on holiday. So he picked up the slack, taking on odd jobs for Mr. Edgar. Everything from chopping wood to helping with the gaming flocks. Whatever needed fixing, Russell figured out how to fix. 

His toil was a kind of self-flagellation; a way of punishing himself for not climbing over the castle walls Paul had erected. For not getting Paul to open up and stay. As a result, his body grew thicker – muscles bulking, hands and feet growing calloused, like his heart. He let his hair grow out; he stopped shaving.

Mr. Edgar appreciated his tenacity (if not his unruly appearance) and the two of them developed a silent respect for one another. Russell appreciated Mr. Edgar’s tendency to avoid speaking unless absolutely necessary. Between the two of them, they kept Thistle Hawk on its feet as the lazy summer turned slowly into autumn. 

The trees sported their colors early – deep maple reds, bright oranges, and yellows. These were Paul-colors; colors that the young lord would look striking against. Everything reminded him of Paul.

And it was silly, really. What stuff. He’d been an independent sort of bloke since six or seven. Never had he clung to anyone’s memory, never worked hard to keep anyone’s face fresh in his mind. But Paul _lingered_. Paul’s smile; Paul’s scent. The way Paul drew out his words when telling a secret. The way Paul felt, contracting around him, gasping into his ear. The way Paul looked when he’d told Russ he’d belonged to him. 

Juxtapose that with Paul’s abrupt and unexplained departure – his sudden abandonment – and Russell was left more than just confused. He was quietly furious. The kind of furious that would snap a lesser man. 

He was usually the one to walk away, to search out an ever endless horizon. _Waiting_ had been the hardest task of his life. But, at long last, he’d found something worth the agony. 

So he waited, biding his time. He didn’t bother making lists of questions to ask when Paul returned. He never once practiced a conversation. There was still no pretense in him. But there would be a reckoning. He at least deserved some answers. So Russell worked. And whittled. And walked in his woods, like a ghost. He watched the leaves turn from rusty gold to brown, wither, and fall with the wind and first snow. Still, he waited. 

It was a blustery day in the second week of December when a lanky figure haunted his stable. Russ saw him from the shadows of Max’s loft. A slender fellow who held himself with an unfamiliar certainty. He stroked his knuckles over Byron’s nose, who responded well to his plain confidence. Russell didn’t recognize the new, soft brown coat, and the hair was blonder with sun. But he’d know Paul Bettany anywhere.

Silently, he climbed down the ladder and murmured, “What the bloody hell to you think you’re doing, you bugger?”

Paul froze, his arm stuck in between the bars. Smiling inwardly – how predictable – Russell gently reached up and worked him free. They stared at one another, noting all the changes. 

“Russell,” Paul breathed. 

He looked good – well fed; well dressed. Older, a bit. A man. He’d look excellent, in fact, if not for the agonized expression. Russ almost felt sorry for him. But all he did was nod. “Your lordship.”

Paul sighed, hanging his head. “It’s good to see you. After so long….”

Russell didn’t respond. He held still and let Paul’s eyes travel the length of his body, making no attempt to hide his gruff manner. He looked almost wild, he knew. A small part of him hoped Paul felt guilty for it. 

“I’ve been all over. Eight countries in four months. I’m exhausted.” A sheepish grin. “But I had to come and see you. I wanted… to make certain you’d not left… I came straight here, in fact, trying to work up the courage… I mean, my bags are still out front, I just wanted….”

“I’ll go and get them,” Russ interrupted, not ready to hear Paul blather out his confessions just yet. “Otherwise Mister Edgar will attempt to lift them.”

Paul reached out to touch his shoulder. Russ stared at those long fingers as if they were something alien, and the younger man pulled back. “Are you certain you must do that right now?”

“If Mister Edgar starts hauling your trunks and falls down dead, I’d never forgive myself.”

Paul winced, and Russell realized that was probably _exactly_ the wrong thing to say. Still. If Paul felt like he’d somehow sent his father to an early grave because of their kiss, pussyfooting around the issue wouldn’t make him change his mind. And Russ was not in a generous mood, besides. “Your lordship.” 

He turned and strode out to the front lawn.

~*~

The next day Paul asked Mr. Edgar to see about going to the Isaacs’ to look after Jenny. But as the servants had not been recalled – Paul had never bothered to send word of his return – that left only Russ to drive the carriage. 

“I can ride there. If you’ll saddle Apple,” Paul offered.

“A nine-year-old work horse, four miles and back?” Russ asked. “I wouldn’t advise it, your lordship.”

Paul sighed. “Must you ‘your lordship’ me?”

Russ said sternly, “Yes.” 

He hitched up the team to the coach and drove a miserable-looking Paul Bettany to Pembyrn. Light snow had started to fall, and, despite the chill that crawled under his collar, he was glad, because it gave him an excuse to quickly board the horses in the stables. Paul went inside to see after Jenny, who was now so far along as to not be presentable in public.

Russ eventually caught up with Bean and Mortensen; each man had a handshake and smile for him. Little Max, not quite as little as when he’d seen him last, came running up to him and jumped into his arms for a hug.

“You’re getting too big to carry. How’s the arm, sparrow?” Russ asked, stroking the boy’s hair.

“All mended now. Doctor Irons is pleased with it.” The boy smiled as he set him down. “It tingles when it snows.”

Russ smiled. “You are a living, breathing, natural weather phenomenon. How exciting.”

“I assume you didn’t bring the carriage just for a visit?” Viggo looked up at him from underneath his cowboy hat.

“Lord Bettany has returned.”

“Paul!” Max shouted, delighted, starting to run to the house. Russ caught him and held him close for a while. “Why can’t I…?”

“First of all, you know better than to dash into Sir Isaacs’ home like you own it. Second, Lord Bettany is here to see his sister, not you. Third, because I said so.”

“Why do you call him ‘Lord Bettany’ all of a sudden?”

“Because that’s what he became. All of a sudden.” Russ smiled sharply.

“But,” Max frowned, “I haven’t seen him in _so_ long, and I am eager to return to Thistle Hawk and take up our lessons again.”

Russ shot Sean a look. “I’m not sure his lordship will have time for that anymore, Max. Of course, it seems to me the gentry have nothing _but_ time on their hands, so, we’ll hold out hope. But we’ll wait for him to bring it up.”

Max squinted at him. “You did promise you would take me back.”

Christ. Either Sean or he were headed for heartbreak. “You have a complaint against being here?” He raised one eyebrow. 

“Oh no!” Max hastened to reassure Sean and Viggo. “It’s been fun. But I belong with you, sir. You said.”

Russell sighed and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his right hand. “I’m not sure I’m very good company at the moment. You have other young boys, servants to pal around with, here. And you are learning a trade from a master.”

“You’re a master.” Max shifted his weight. “Or don’t you want me, Russ? Am I trouble?”

Something in his icy armor cracked. “Ah, lad, I’d keep you to the end of my days. But I’m just thinking what’s best for you.”

Sean looked a little green during this exchange. Viggo had a hand on his back. Russell understood – the boy didn’t mean to slight his father, but this fall had rather been like spending holiday with two uncles. He’d long since imprinted on Russell, and to be honest, Russ had missed him. Much more time here and Sean would probably learn to love the lad. He sighed. “Ah, my sparrow, you’ll understand when you’re older. But not just yet.”

Clearing his throat, Sean tilted his head to the end of the stables. Russ ushered Max toward Viggo so they might put blankets around the coach team, and then followed Bean to the stable’s back doors.

“It might be better if you took him,” Sean said low. 

Russ frowned. “You don’t want —?”

“He’s my son. Of _course_ I do. But I’ve heard nothing but talk of you and Lord Bettany for nigh on four months. Viggo is probably going to go on tour again as soon as the winter ends. And besides… it just might be better.”

Squinting, trying to glean his meaning but failing, Russ said, “What are you on about?”

Sean looked down. “I… I don’t like the way Sir Isaacs looks at Max. I mean… Christ, I don’t know. I can’t tell if he sees the lad and thinks of Lord Bettany, or the race, or what, but… There’s something dark there. It makes me nervous.”

“That’s because your master is utterly insane,” Russ murmured. “I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him.”

“That far?” Sean joked. “The boy belongs with you, Russ. Take him home. Take him before….”

He nodded. If Sean needed to invent a threat in order to explain his reasons for not wanting Max – no doubt, the fear of becoming too attached – so be it. “All right. I will.”

“Ta, mate. I’ll try and get over to visit on Sundays when I have time off.”

“You’re always welcome.” Russ smiled. “So how’s he been?”

Sean shook his head. “He’s a very curious little thing. Can ask more questions in the span of an hour than you or I asked in a year.”

“Truer words….” 

“Come inside and have a spot of tea,” Sean offered. So he followed the fellows into the very expansive lower kitchen of Pembyrn and sat at the table, catching up, even managing a laugh or two, until a small, polite cough echoed over to them.

They looked up to see Paul standing in the doorway somewhat sheepishly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to intrude.” Everyone got to their feet. A gentlemen in the servant’s quarters – unheard of. 

“Everything all right?” Russ asked, worried.

“Oh yes.” Paul nodded and walked further in. “I’ve only just now finished my visit with Jenny and I didn’t want to trouble a servant to fetch you, but if you’re busy….”

Russ couldn’t help smiling. _Some_ things about Paul hadn’t changed – asking his servant if it was convenient to serve him. “I’ll prepare the horses.”

“Yes, to that end,” Paul cleared his throat. “Mister Mortensen? I understand you are a very great expert in racing?”

Viggo shrugged modestly. 

“Sir Isaacs believes he should like to host a tournament this spring. He says he’s going to invite people from all over – beyond England, even.”

Viggo’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, really now? First I’d heard of it.”

Paul smiled. “I’m certain he’d just thought of it now. He’s invited me to enter,” Paul shot Russ a look and then peered around at Max, “that is, if my rider and horse-master are up to the task?”

“Oh boy!” Max said. 

“Anxious to break the other one, are you?” Russ said from the corner of his mouth. “What’s the prize?”

Paul blinked. “Oh, for the winner? One-hundred.”

“Shillings?” Russ asked, curling his lip.

“Pounds.”

“One-hundred pounds to the rider!” Russ exclaimed. His arms went slack.

Paul smiled widely now. “Split between rider and horse-master, of course. Another five-hundred for the horse owner.”

Russ just about fell down. “How can you possibly afford that?”

Shrugged, Paul stepped forward. “Entry fees tallied together, I expect. Quite a lot of riders from all over the world, Jason was thinking. But imagine. Such a sum could afford a person a place in a school someday,” Paul said, winking at Max. 

“Or berth on a ship,” Russ concluded. School or Navy, whatever the boy wanted. He would work them tirelessly until they had this race in the bag. “Ask Sir Isaacs if we might practice often on his track?”

The boy looked ecstatic but Paul frowned. “Yes, I will. So… so you’ll do it then? It’s on the Ides of March, if the snow is off the ground.”

Russ nodded. “I’ll win you your wager, Lord Bettany.” 

Sean scoffed. “Here now, you’ll win the lad lungs full of dust – Viggo’s going to beat you.” 

Russ looked Viggo up and down. “This race will be with grown men, not jockey lads, then?”

“Anyone is fit to enter. If you think Max is up to it… Or you, yourself….”

Russ snorted. “I couldn’t possibly lose enough stone in time. Max? Max, are you sure you want to go up against grown —”

“Yes, sir. We should go home and start my exercises right away.” The boy beamed. “I shall go pack.”

As the child scampered off, Russ shot an apologetic look Bean’s way, but he simply shrugged. “He was always on loan, anyway, right?”

“Right, mate. But Sundays,” Russ said softly.

Sean nodded. 

Paul clasped his hands behind his back. “If we’re all set then, might I trouble you to drive back? I’ve forgotten to eat today and should like to get back in time for tea. Mister Edgar should have recalled the servants by now, don’t you think?”

“Your lordship,” Russ said, reminding himself to be severe. Paul was so damned excited to see his sister, he didn’t eat. Or maybe he wasn’t eating because they were on the outs. He might be getting sick from all that traveling. Whatever the reason, Russell chastised himself for caring. 

He would not be moved by the fact that Paul insisted Max ride in the coach to keep out of the cold. He would not be moved when Paul refused to let any house’s servants go, despite the fact that a quiet bachelor such as himself needed a staff half the size he currently employed (though the ladies’ maids had gone to Lady Bettany’s townhouse in London already and the sportsmen were all found places on other manors in the county.) Most of all, he refused to be moved by the fact that Paul’s eyes followed him everywhere. 

It was a week later, during a wretched snow storm, when Paul knocked on his woodhouse door. The stove gave him away – he couldn’t very well pretend not to be home. So he opened, finding the young man shivering in his coat, his hair lightly dusted with white, teeth chattering. “Might I come in?”

Russ let him in. Paul looked around, noticed that nothing much had changed, and shivered. He opened his coat and produced a scroll of parchment. “I wrote that. For you.”

Staring, he took it, his hands moving of their own volition to unravel it. It was music. A solo piece. For the violin. Russ looked up.

“I wrote it in Vienna. I met a German gentleman who… spoke to me about philosophy. And I… I stayed up half the night trying to get it just right, but, it didn’t come until morning.” A soft smile. “I hope you’ll like it.”

“Thank you, your lor—”

“ _Paul_ ,” Paul insisted loudly. Russell was taken aback by his forceful tone. “In this room at least, call me Paul.” The younger man wrapped his arms tightly over his chest and stood there, shaking a bit. “You’re angry.”

Russell went over and sat on the bed. He contemplated throwing the music into the stove, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. “What was your first clue?”

“Your rampant civility,” Paul bit off. “It’s not like you at all.” He reached out, fingering Russ’s hair for a moment. “What have you done to your hair?”

“Nothing,” Russ answered.

“Apparently. You look like a Bohemian.” Paul rubbed his hands together. “How angry are you?”

“Very,” Russ said quietly. Deadly. 

Paul nodded. “I left without explanation. It was wrong of me, I’m sorry.”

“You left without even saying goodbye,” Russ accused, still quiet. He would not explode. He would _not_ explode. “Have I earned so little of your respect?”

Paul winced. “There’s nothing I can think of to say to you. The night my fath – the night Lord Bettany… died… he’d threatened to turn me out of the house for being a sodomite. He beat me; that much you know.”

Russ’s right hand gripped the headboard hard enough to stress the wood. “I saw,” he said tightly.

Nodding, Paul invited himself to sit beside Russell on the bed. He smelled like winter and warm tea. “He also informed me that I am actually not a Bettany, but son to one of, what I assume is many of, my mother’s unnamed lovers.”

Russ stared ahead of him, absorbing this information. “Oh.”

“It is rather shocking,” Paul agreed. “He destroyed…” Paul’s voice wobbled. “Years worth of music. And my cello. I’m very glad he didn’t get to the piano – he always hated that thing.” A cynical chuckle. “Instead, he went to throw the music table upon me.”

“Christ.”

“That’s when it happened. I don’t remember much else. Doctor Irons and Mister Edgar took care of it until Mother and Jenny came home.” Paul waited a long time before speaking again, and Russell longed to hold him, but he couldn’t, not yet, not yet, couldn’t let go of his own pain yet. “She took the news as if she’d been expecting it all along. I’d wondered if she’d been poisoning his food for years or something like that. But no. It appears she just hated him.”

Paul sighed, looking weary. “You must understand, I had just lost everything and gained something that should have rightfully gone to James…” And here, a sob, but he held himself in check. “If Jenny has a boy, Thistle Hawk can eventually go to him. But if she doesn’t,” he looked up at Russell, terrified, “then I shall have to marry. I rather suspect Ev wants to set me up with his nutter sister. Otherwise this house, which has been the sum of everything my grandfather worked for, will be lost.”

Russell frowned. “Not really _your_ grandfather, though, is it?” 

“James’ grandfather, then.” Paul looked deflated. 

“I’ve traveled the world, too, you know. And I’ve been doing it for damned sight longer than four months. Do you know what I’ve learned, Paul?” Using his name got Paul to look at him. “You don’t own things. They own _you_. This money and power you have – it comes at a high price. All I’ve got to my name is some clothes and some books, a violin, and a pipe. I’m not tied to any of them, either. I could walk out of this hut at any given moment and leave them behind forever. _That_ makes me a rich man. My freedom.”

Paul peered curiously at him. “Why didn’t you? Walk out, I mean?”

Russell took in a deep breath. “You know why.”

The scent of tears then, but they didn’t fall. “Russell,” Paul whispered, leaning over, nuzzling him. “Can you ever forgive me?”

Russ petted through the man’s hair for a moment. “I can’t forgive you, Paul.” Paul pulled away, devastated. Russell stopped him from getting up. “Don’t you see? You’ve made me love you. I’ve managed to go thirty-three years without succumbing to this trap, but there’s no escaping you, is there, Lord Bettany? I’m yours. I’m Lord Bettany’s lover. No matter what you’d do to me, now matter how many times you’d walk away from me, I’d still be waiting here.”

“Oh, God, Russ,” Paul breathed, leaning over to kiss him. The younger man slid his mouth sideways, his lips rubbing over the corners of Russ’s mouth, his tongue tasting hungrily. Russ let him in, pleasantly surprised to find Paul more assertive, more eager to take. 

He laid back on the bed and brought Paul with him, trading heated kisses, Paul settling immediately between his legs, half-standing over the bed, rubbing against him. “I missed you,” Paul choked out. “Everywhere I went, my mind wouldn’t let you go!” 

Russ surged up, squeezing the muscles in his abdomen until he shook, hands raking the coat off of Paul, who eagerly shimmied it to the floor. The young lord was on him then, covering him, trying to steal his warmth, pressing fervent kisses to his eyes, his cheeks, his chin. Sucking on his neck. 

“Your beard tickles,” Paul giggled out. “You look like a bear.”

Russ laughed. “I shall shave if you wish it.”

Paul shook his head. “I don’t care what you come like, just come to me, love.” The young man started up a rhythm then, their bodies rubbing together, wrapping around each other, two chords wound together, fated, fitted perfectly. He sighed, the hard block of ice lodged under his sternum now melting away. 

“Don’t shut me out again,” he said suddenly, because it was important. Important he made this point. Important he get this concession first. “It makes me feel cheap, too.”

“I won’t,” Paul whispered, untucking his shirt and drawing it up. Paul slid down until his knees rested on the floor and licked a hot trail down Russ’s stomach. Russ groaned and stretched up. God, it felt bloody good. 

Paul opened his trousers and nuzzled his prick, smoothing his angular cheek over Russ’s length until he thought he would go mad. He braced his palms on the back wall and _arched_ when Paul took him in his warm, wet mouth. He grunted as Paul worked him, the man was so famished for him, so focused and intent. Russ curled up to look into sharp blue eyes as he petted Paul’s hair back. 

“S’good, little prince,” he gasped out. Paul smiled wickedly around his cock and continued until Russell was ready to unravel. He pulled the young lord up into his lap and made Paul ride him, rubbing against the swell of his perfect arse, letting Paul thrust against his naked torso. He cupped the man’s buttocks and drove them both until Paul cried out and came. It didn’t take long for him to follow.

Collapsing against him, Paul looked sleepy. Russ angled them down the length of the bed. “You’ve not rested since your return.”

Paul sighed. “I’ve not rested… in a very long time….” He drew Paul close, rubbing circles over his back. “I was so afraid you wouldn’t be here.”

Russ was silent, thinking. “Why did you stay gone so long?” He hated sounding as desperate as Max, but there it was.

Paul tucked into that space between his chin and shoulder and spread out on top of him. “I don’t know. I was lost.”

He kissed Paul’s forehead – amazed it had only taken a few moments alone and all the rough edges were already smoothing over. He was still angry, still very, very angry and slightly distrustful. But if he was honest – none of that mattered, because he was Paul’s. Paul held his entire world in the palm of his hand – in the wedges between his fingers. There was nothing he didn’t love about this man, not even the way he fled. “You didn’t come to me. You shut me out… Why?”

“Didn’t think you’d want me… once you’d seen me… as I was then….” A small voice. “Stupid, I know.”

“Incredibly stupid. Don’t be so thick next time.”

Paul snorted and wound his arms more tightly around Russell. “Seriously, Russell. Can you ever forgive me for being such a damned selfish fool?”

He rubbed his cheek over Paul’s forehead. “Just this once,” he said softly, patting Paul’s back in time to his heartbeat, willing him to go to sleep. 

Russ didn’t sleep that night – just held onto Paul, who lay there like a corpse. He was exhausted. Russ just listened to him breathe. Let his scent and his presence seep into Russ’s skin, into the planks of wood on the walls. Paul tangled around him like a spider’s web and it never occurred to him to mind. 

The next morning, Paul awoke feeling kittenish. He bit at Russ playfully, kissed him tenderly, and even growled a bit. They wrestled in bed, enjoying the quiet of the snow and their rediscovered intimacy, when suddenly Russ remembered. 

“It’s the twenty-first of December.”

Paul blinked. “So it is.”

Russ got up out of bed, did up his trousers, and then got down on his hands and knees. He reached under the bed and pulled up the heavy mass wrapped in cloth and twine, nudging it toward Paul. “Happy birthday.”

Pleased and not doing a good job of hiding it, Paul grinned and swung his legs over to the side of the bed. He carefully untied the object – Russ helped hold it still – and then gasped. 

“It’s _gorgeous_.”

“It ought to be, after four months work.” Russ looked down and then back up. “Will it do?”

Long white fingers ghosted over the neck, the strings, the curves of the strings of Paul Bettany’s new, hand-carved cello. 

Russ reached back under the bed and held out a store-bought bow. “I stained the wood myself. I tested it, but I’ve never learned it, so, you might have to tune it or….”

Paul hadn’t taken his eyes off the instrument. When he did, Russ could see the innermost part of the young man, brimming with something deep and lasting…. “Give me the bow,” Paul whispered. 

Russ handed it over. Paul set the cello between his legs – Russ remained crouched on the floor – and he tested the strings, tuning. Then he caressed the bow over the body, the most beautiful, low, sorrowful note filling the woodhouse, reverberating. Paul played, slow and devastating, wringing the last note out until Russ could feel it in his chest. 

“Perfect,” Paul whispered.

Russ smiled and accepted Paul’s reverent kiss. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: Winter Bloom**

The hired coach dropped Rupert off first. Paul was anxious to get home, of course, but sorry to see his time with his friend end. To his surprise, Rupert ducked back into the box after his things had been unloaded and gave him a great smacking kiss on the lips. 

“It has been a wondrous adventure, my best friend in all the world, but I am very, very happy to be back home, to a bed that has real feathers and a wine cellar that meets my standards!” Rupert grinned and ruffled his hair. “You be sure and call on us before Christmas!”

Paul cupped Rupert’s face. “Ev… There are no words. Thank you.”

Rupert winked. “What are friends for?” Another rakish grin and then the older man bounded toward the house. Paul tapped on the roof and the driver went on to Thistle Hawk.

Paul didn’t bother unloading his things – he ran straight to the woodhouse. It was locked. He couldn’t tell if Russell was still there or if it had been shut up for the winter. Max was nowhere about the grounds, so, he thought he’d check the stables. 

The stables were clean and well kept, but dark and quiet. He went over to Byron and petted him – amazed the horse recognized him after so long. 

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, you bugger?” a soft voice grumbled near him, startling him such that his arm got caught in the bar.

Déjà vu.

Russell Crowe had changed remarkably. Paul fought to keep the surprise from his face. Russ looked wild – hair down to his chin, a beard hiding half his face. His clothes looked like they hadn’t been pressed in ages. And those _eyes_ \-- green and hard like expensive emeralds.

His lover was enraged.

Paul could think of nothing to do but wait for cues from Russ. The man was playing it very cool indeed. So Paul spent the rest of the day unpacking – Mr. Edgar was the only servant about the manor at the moment, and Paul didn’t want to burden him with running up and down stairs over laundry. He carefully laid out his presents – lace, cards, liquors, jewelry. He’d remembered to get little tins of hard confections for each of the servants, for when they returned. 

Mr. Edgar asked after him, but he was too tired to go into detail about his journey, so he merely answered a few questions and asked if a light dinner could be managed. Mr. Edgar brought up some soup and pound cake and Paul ate at his table, as he often had in the past. Except now it didn’t sit right.

“Mister Edgar?”

“My lord?”

“I wonder. When the servants return, might we move some of my things into the master bedroom? I do believe I’ve outgrown the tower.” In truth, he didn’t want to be in the same room with the memories… with his father’s ghost.

The butler nodded. “I’ve removed everything of Lord Bettany’s in the master suite in case you felt that way, sir. When the lads are back, I’ll have them set up things properly, if you want to sleep in there tonight.”

“Yes, thank you.” Paul smiled. He motioned to the larged wingback chair. “Would you like to sit for a while, Mister Edgar?”

Surprised, Mr. Edgar did. 

“How have you been in my absence?”

“Fine, my lord. I’ve never worked in a house so quiet as this one before. I almost feel lazy, sir.” The old man smiled. 

“It’s just been you and Mister Crowe?”

“Yes, sir. The lads come up from town once a week to help with chores, but mostly it’s only been us two. I suppose Mister Crowe had no family to visit. Or he didn’t trust anyone with his horses. Will you keep them, sir?”

“The horses? Yes, I should expect so.” Otherwise there’d be no point to keeping Russell, and that idea he couldn’t support. 

“Very good, sir.” Mr. Edgar smiled. “Did you enjoy your travels?”

“Very much.” Paul nodded. He was tired, but couldn’t rest. Russ was out there in that woodhouse in this damned fool weather, hating him with emerald green eyes. “I liked Vienna best; I felt alive there.” He smiled. “But of course, it is good to be home.”

“It is good to have you home, sir.” Mr. Edgar smiled. “Is there anything you wanted of me, my lord? You’ve only to ask it.”

Paul shook his head. He should let the man get to bed. “No, thank you for the company. Just… just one more question. How would you say Russell Crowe has fared since I’ve been gone? Has he seemed… odd?”

Mr. Edgar cocked his head to the side. “You mean other than the fact that he seems to fear going to a barber? No, sir. He just seems to me a man that can’t sit still. He’d always have to be working, you see. Sunup, sundown, working.”

“Motion,” Paul murmured to himself. 

“Sir?”

“Nothing.” He smiled tightly. “So he’s been restless.”

Mr. Edgar shrugged. “I don’t rightly know, sir. He’s always been an odd sort of fellow. In his thirties and no family to speak of, just a fondness for horses and that boy. Doctor Irons sent word that he’s doing well, by the way.”

Paul was surprised. “He’s not here on the manor?”

“He’s at Pembyrn, sir. Went there with Lady Isaacs the day after the wake.”

“Ah.” He hadn’t known that. So, Russ had been alone. All alone, these four months, but for Mr. Edgar. No wonder there was a hardness to his eyes. “Thank you, Mister Edgar. Tomorrow I will go to Pembyrn – visit Jenny and Master Pirkis myself. You’ve been most kind. Please do take the night off.”

Mr. Edgar rose gingerly out of the chair. “Thank you, sir. Goodnight, sir.”

“Goodnight.”

~*~

Russell had been especially cold to him the following morning on the ride to Pembyrn. He dropped Paul off and didn’t even wait for instruction, just immediately took the team to the stables. Paul sighed and went inside, bundles under each arm, eager to see the one face that would genuinely smile for him.

Jenny greeted him at the top of the stairs and _waddled_ her way down. “Good Lord, you’re as big as a house, Jenny!”

When she was within reach, she swatted his arm. “Brute. You men have no idea what we ladies suffer for you, in confinement and out!” They kissed on both cheeks and she took one of the packages from under his arms. “Is this for me?”

“The one on the right is for Mother. And you’re not to open yours before Christmas. Would you be a dear and have Mother’s sent with your next letter? I don’t think I’ll be writing much to London.”

“Oh, yes. I write often, in fact. Almost every day; to Mother, and to Mister Pearce.”

Paul frowned. “The Australian with the tiger?”

Jenny blushed. “The tiger is grown and in the zoo now.”

“And where is Mister Pearce?”

“India, from his last letter. I’ve had them from all over. Mongolia, Russia, Africa. He’s been writing since that night at the ball, but… the letters sometimes arrive out of order. I suppose the post is undependable outside of England.” She sat down in the grand living room – the entire house she’d decorated in pine wreaths and red ribbons for the season – and offered him a scone, which he accepted. It was rather like hard tack after months of _dame blanches_ and chocolate eggs and tiramisu, but it was familiar. It was home.

“Whatever do you find to talk about?”

“Oh, everything. His travels. Baby names. He sends the strangest gifts for the child – I’ve a statue of a cat from Egypt and a little doll with three other little dolls inside it from Saint Petersburg.” Jenny laughed. “At first I thought he believed I’d have a girl, but then he sent a Saracen sword. Sometimes we talk of philosophy or politics – did you know he has an astounding lack of morals?”

Paul grinned. “Imagine that.”

“And with all these letters my wife’s been getting,” Jason said from behind Paul’s chair, “you’d think you’d manage a letter yourself, little brother.”

Paul swallowed and stood. He reached out first and shook Jason’s hand firmly. “Jason. Good to see you again. I trust you’ve been well, but then you are always in excellent health.”

“Jason’s been bored stiff with you gone, Paulie. All his other friends have gone to town for the winter, but he won’t leave me in my confinement, dear thing.” Jenny smiled and Paul was forced to smile too.

“Now I shan’t have cause to complain, for you can tell me all about your trip.” Jason smiled falsely, showing all his teeth. 

“Yes, I shall,” Paul said, holding his gaze. “It has been a remarkable journey. I must make it a point to travel every year, now that it is only me in that big house.”

Jason exhaled. “Ha! We shall have to get you a wife.”

“ _No_ , thank you.” Paul smiled to Jennifer. “I rather enjoy being a bachelor at present. There’s a tremendous sense of…” he looked at Jason, “freedom in answering to no one, running one’s own life.”

Jason nodded. “But then, there’s joy to be had in sharing it.”

“Oh,” Jenny sighed, looking down in her lap. They said women with child were exceptionally emotional. She composed herself. “I am glad you are home, Paulie.”

“I’m glad too,” he said warmly, relaxing back into the chair. 

“We shall have to celebrate somehow,” Jason said. “I’d throw you a party, but who could top Duke Everett’s?”

They chuckled. “Not a party, then,” Paul said. “How about a quiet dinner instead? Just the three of us. Or —”

“I know!” Jason declared, slapping his knee. “A horse race.”

Paul raised one eyebrow. “In December?”

“In the spring, of course. As soon as the snow melts. I shall make it interesting. I will put out wires all over England – Europe and Asia, too. I built that damned race track for your father, God rest him, and now that he’s gone, it’s going to waste. But now that you’re back, I shall host a great tournament in your honor. We’ll have the finest racers in all the world.”

Inwardly, Paul sighed. He just couldn’t get worked up about that sort of thing. However. _Russell_ would probably be intrigued enough to come out of his shell. He was competitive by nature and lived for his work. This might just do the trick. 

“Excellent.” Paul steepled his fingers. “What are we playing for?”

Jason thought. “Well, if it’s a competition, it will either have to be a trophy or money of some kind, and as we’re not an official racing entity… let’s agree to a sum?”

“What’s expected of these sort of things?”

Jason pursed his lips. “Three-hundred. But I want to draw a crowd. Let’s make it five-hundred to the owner of the winning horse. No second prize. No sense in being rewarded for being the first to lose.”

Paul smiled tightly. “One-hundred for the rider and trainer.”

“Together, not each,” Jason said shrewdly. 

Paul bowed to the notion, already formulating a plan for getting Max Pirkis into a good school without it seeming like charity. “Wonderful.”

“Fantastic. I shall put out cables tomorrow!” Jason’s blue eyes twinkled. 

“You boys,” Jenny sighed. 

Paul kissed her and laid a hand on her belly. “You'd best be prepared in case this little one _is_ a boy. Have you picked out a name?”

“Guy suggested Cai, after Sir Cai of Camelot,” Jenny said, sliding a glance to her husband. “I rather liked it. Jason wants Peter, but that’s so traditional.”

For a moment, Paul’s mind flashed to getting evicted from Saint Peter’s in Rome and he grinned. “You could always name him Peter Cai Isaacs. It has a ring.”

“I’m the one having the baby; I can name him ‘pickle’ if I want.”

“Ah, dear, your Suffragette mentality is peeking through again,” Jason said affectionately. “Oh, Paul, did you know your sister had been sneaking off to Women’s Rights movements?” Jason asked this like he and Paul and had never spoken of it before.

“I wouldn’t put it beyond her,” Paul said. He winked at Jenny. 

She threw up her hands and carefully got up out of the chair. “I shall speak to Cook about something for dinner….”

“Oh, don’t bother, I won’t stay that long,” Paul said. 

“But you’ve only just got here,” Jason and Jenny said.

“Yes, but I am weary and there is much to do at the manor now that I’ve returned. I expect Mother might come down for Christmas and I want the place in shape for her.”

“Well, I still must speak to Cook about Jason and I, at least,” Jenny said. “I’ll be back.”

Paul felt a little trepidation as Jenny left the room, but to be honest, he wasn’t afraid of Jason anymore. Much. “So….”

“So. You’ve filled out nicely, Paul. Quite handsome, I must say.” Jason got up and walked over to his chair. He went to stroke Paul’s hair and Paul caught his wrist.

“I guess you could say I’ve done some growing up.” Paul pointedly placed Jason’s hand down by his side. 

“So I see.” A beat. “You must realize I am tenacious and stubborn by nature. It will take some time, giving up seducing you, little brother.”

Paul fought the urge to shiver. “No fear, Jason. I don’t think we’ll see all that much of each other, so you needn’t be tempted. In the meantime, I am certain there are many more suitable lads that would seek your attentions, if you were inclined.”

“I have had my eye on one.”

In truth, Paul was relieved. Finally Jason could fixate on something other than him. He stood. “I want it very clear, sir,” he said, looking intensely into Jason’s eyes, “that if you ever, _ever_ give my sister occasion for grief; if you dishonor her; if you bring her low, or even her opinion of _you_ low, I’ll figure out how to fire a pistol and I won’t even wait for ten paces.”

Jason’s eyes widened. “You went to Europe and returned with a spine, Paul. I’m proud of you.”

“I want your word.”

“You have it. For what it’s worth.”

Jenny returned and they resumed talking of small things. Paul went into some detail about his trip, excluding things that might startle Jennifer, and he listened while they talked of painting the nursery and what parties they’d been to before Jenny had to stay in. Round about three, he begged off, and headed to the stables to find Russ, but he wasn’t there. The jockey that had been responsible for Max’s broken arm smiled warily at him and informed him they’d be in the kitchen. 

He went and told Russ and his mates about the race. Max seemed delighted, and something sparked in Russell too, but Paul watched closely as Viggo Mortensen took in the news. That man already had the race won, on the track in his mind, at least. 

When they spoke of the prize, Russell mentioned something of purchasing berth on a ship. Paul immediately thought Russ meant to leave him and go traveling again, but it seemed like he was saying this to Pirkis. Where did Pirkis wish to sail to? 

His stomach rumbled and he’d asked to go home. He rode with Max in the box, catching up on all the boy had experienced while at Pembyrn. He had missed this child. “Max?”

“Sir?”

“Would you like to take up lessons again? When Russ hasn’t got you training, that is?”

Max’s smile was beatific. “ _Yes_ , my lord, yes, please!”

“Excellent.” That had put him in better spirits. But Russell again saw immediately to the horses and Paul could tell from the tightness in his back that conversation would be totally unwelcome. 

In truth, he hid. He hid from Russell’s anger – very real, very deserved anger – spending a maddening week shut up in the house. He gave the servants their sweets, wrote a bit in a journal about his trip, and played on the piano. He’d had Charlie and Kenny move it down to the drawing room, and ordered the tower room cleaned and locked. By the end of the week, he was in the master bedroom, lord and master of the house in the servants’ eyes, and thoroughly coming out of his skin without Russell.

During that time, he’d watched Russell through the windows as he trained Max on Byron in the ring – watched him shovel snow in the early morning, practice paces until midday, and instruct Pirkis on body movement on a makeshift horse composed of a large log and many blankets until tea. If the snow was powdered and light, he’d let Max open Byron up to a trot. But Paul’s eyes were always focused on Russell. It was maddening.

~*~

Wrapping up warmly the next day, he went to Russ’s hut and decided to meet the man head-on. No attempt to earn forgiveness, he just said mea culpa until Russell was completely disarmed. He was pleasantly surprised with the result. They spent the night making love, slowly, sweetly, whispering promises he’d fully intended to always keep. He _slept_ , real, honest, deep sleep. 

And in the morning, Russ presented him with his birthday gift – a handmade cello of extraordinary craftsmanship. It must have taken him weeks and weeks to perfect. Paul loved it. He played and played, and then made love to Russell again. And then they played together, cello and violin, two lovers in accord. It was glorious.

Later that day a package arrived from Jenny – she’d sent him lots of parchment, ink, stave sheets, a netronome, ribbon, and a lovely set of pens with a note ~ _If you cannot write letters, then write in your own language, dearest. Music._ ~

Paul was very grateful. He summoned Mr. Edgar and let him know that Russell Crowe played the violin and would be joining him in the evenings in the drawing room to practice, and they were not to be interrupted. Mr. Edgar, ever professional and diligent, said nothing about the odd request, only nodded and instructed the servants to the matter. 

That night, Thistle Hawk’s rooms were filled with such beautiful music, the servants – even little Max – clamored round close to listen in the hallways and behind cracked doors. Paul smiled, his eyes never leaving his lover, as they played on until midnight.

The next day, Rupert and Helena came over. It was Christmas Eve and they brought Paul expensive wines and a basket of exotic fruits. He gave Helena a beaded purse he’d picked up in Paris – it was red silk and very flamboyant – she loved it. To Rupert, an engraved pocket watch that read ~ _Never rise before noon_ ~.

Rupert had brought his flute, so Russell was summoned, and the three of them tripped their way through Mozart while Helena tinkered with harmony on the piano. They opened one of Rupert’s very expensive gifts of port and got riotously drunk before the Everett’s headed home.

Paul spent Christmas morning nursing his hangover, going out to the stables around eleven. Russ appeared no worse for wear, damn him. Did Sean Bean say he was easily drunk? But no matter. Paul was sure to give Pirkis his Christmas presents – an Italian leather-bound journal and a book of DaVinci art and illustrations. In return, the boy had sewn him a leather pouch to keep his money in. Paul thought it very sweet.

To Russell – who was the hardest person to shop for despite all of Europe’s finery – he handed a bone-carved knife he’d picked up in a specialty shop in Switzerland. Russ’s eyes lit up when he saw it. He nodded his thanks – apparently too overcome for words – and put it in his boot for safe keeping.

“Your gift is at the woodhouse,” he grumbled. “Do you want to come and see it?”

Max leered. Paul grinned and nodded. He followed Russ to the hut, thoroughly expecting to be thrown onto the bed and ravished. Instead, the bed was occupied by a slender rectangular box.

“You can open it,” Russ said, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed casually.

Paul went over and undid the latch – the box folded out into a square. Inside were two sets of chess pieces, one painted black and another red, hand carved in maple wood. “Oh, how amazing,” he murmured, holding a king and queen up to get a better look. He peered close. “These are… are these?”

“The pantheon,” Russ said, nodding. “Kronos and Gaia and some of the Titans and demigods in black. Zeus and Hera and all the rest in red. The pawns are muses and heroes the like.” He shrugged.

Paul went over to him and stroked his face. “You’re a man of hidden talents, Russell Crowe.”

“There’s a lot of time on a ship. A man’s got to keep his hands busy. I learned to play the violin and to whittle, that's all.” Russ smiled. “Do you like them?”

“No.” Russ’s face fell. “I love them. Do you play chess?”

“Aye, a little.”

“‘Aye, a little’ meaning you’re an expert.” Paul grinned. “Now if we don’t feel like playing music, we can make sure the servants know we’re playing chess.” He kissed Russ then. “Thank you, love. It’s a wonderful present.”

Russell held him close, and it was strange, feeling so safe and secure in such a dangerous man’s arms. “Russ, do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“Shave your beard.” Paul chuckled.

Russ palmed his face. “I suppose I ought to see a barber.”

“I like your hair,” Paul said, running his hands through it. “But it burns my cheeks to kiss you.”

“Oh. Well. Let’s take care of that matter right away then.” With a wicked smile, Russ went over to one of his shelves and dug out a shaving kit. He used the water in the basin to work up a lather and spread the stuff with the brush over his chin, neck, cheeks. Paul steered him to the stool and very, very carefully, shaved him until he was smooth. 

He waited for Russell to rinse before peppering his cheeks with kisses. “ _Much_ better.”

“Good,” Russ said huskily, dipping Paul back, lowering him to the bed. He proceeded to kiss Paul through the night.

~*~

They continued on quite happily like that for the entire winter. Paul’s days consisted of writing music, teaching Max, visiting Rupert, playing with Russell in the evenings and making love until late into the night. Russell was focused during his time with Max, driven, even, but when with Paul, he was gentle and warm and very attentive. Paul lived in a sort of fairytale, a perfect paradise, as December rolled into 1905, and then January bled into February.

It snowed quite a bit – Pirkis was endlessly throwing snowballs at Russell and Paul. They went on a sleigh ride with Mr. Edgar’s lads. Dr. Irons stopped by to perform his annual physical – Paul was in excellent health, as Dr. Irons had promised. And suddenly winter began to melt into March. 

The minute the ice was gone and the ground was only sprinkled with soft snow, Russ had Max racing Byron across the moor. Twice they went to Pembyrn to practice on Jason’s track. The Ides of March were close by, and the excitement was palpable. Luckily, Russell didn’t feel the need to be so focused on winning that he abstained from Paul’s presence. To the contrary – it seemed like he was actually having fun. He became more affectionate, laughed more, smiled more easily. 

Paul had watched him blossom – a rare winter bloom – and he was happy. Happier than he’d ever been in his life. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: Second to None**

The day of the Pembyrn Racing Tournament arrived. The weather was cool and crisp that morn – a breath-snatching kind of clean had descended over the county in the night. There was a light scattering of snow remaining on the ground, but the track was well-turned and satisfactory. Russell had insisted that Max and Byron come to the Isaacs’ manor they day before so that the horse would be fresh for the race. Both he and the boy refused the extra servant’s quarters or guest tents, choosing instead to sleep in the stable. Paul remained behind at Thistle Hawk, of which he was very glad, because he could afford no distractions. 

He had Max up before dawn, stretching, going over the battle plans, seeing to Byron’s grooming. They braided his hair and brushed his coat until he gleamed. A true champion. The other horses – and there were many – about twenty in all – were all very pretty and very pampered and didn’t stand a chance. There was a white racer from Arabia, two blacks with white stars from France and Germany, about ten sporting English quarter horses, and various other thoroughbreds from God knew where. 

Russ wasn’t about to enquire as to the competition. Most of the jockeys were professional racers and their patrons were so rich, Russell wondered if just looking at them or breathing the same air might be illegal. He was afraid of losing his temper if forced to talk to them – for they mocked him. Not him, but Pirkis. At the little street rat stable-hand that dared to enter their race. Russ decided it was best to avoid them – and the temptation to say or do something that would offend God – before the race. 

He was polishing Max’s saddle when laughter made him turn around to where the other men were looking. Viggo, walking in front of a... wild pony... Not even leading his reins, the horse just followed him into the stables and waited patiently while he began rubbing him down and talking softly.

_This_ Russell respected. That kind of simpatico, that kind of trust between rider and horse – he knew the only man they had to fear in this tournament was Viggo Mortensen.

“The pony express is on the other side of the pond!” one of the jockeys joked. The others all laughed. 

Viggo said nothing, didn’t take his eyes from his horse, but Russ knew he heard. The riders had all gathered round now, sniggering about Viggo’s wild stallion. Would such an animal even be allowed in this type of competition?

Sean Bean walked in, quite a dangerous look about him – it might have had something to do with the way he carried his pitchfork – and _glared_ at the jockeys. Sobering, they went back to their mounts. Viggo looked up and smiled at Sean. 

“You’d think they’d never seen a champion before,” he said to Sean, nodding to the horse.

“ _I’ve_ never seen that horse before,” Russell said, coming over. “Where have you been hiding him?”

Viggo tipped his cowboy hat. “He doesn’t like the stables. He sleeps out in the pasture.”

“Doesn’t care much for the company of snobs,” Sean explained. 

“Max never mentioned him.” Russell folded his arms. He’d have to talk with the boy – Max _should_ have mentioned him. “You’re not riding Windsong then?”

Viggo shook his head while Sean spoke up. “Windsong’s not for me to race. Sir Isaacs isn’t competing against his father-in-law today, so, he’s sending in Hidalgo.”

The reverence with which Viggo said the horse’s name... A quick glance at Viggo to make sure it was okay, and then Russell reached up and smoothed his hand down Hidalgo’s powerful neck. “He’s a fine horse. Fast?”

A soft, modest smile. “Compared to Windsong?” A shrug.

“Mm hmm.” Russ shook his head. Viggo’s wild card was definitely going to be trouble. It was a good thing all those years at sea had taught Russell to lean into the gale and stare the storm in the eye. “Well. Best of luck to you today, chaps. No broken arms, if it can be avoided.”

“You as well, Russ.” Viggo hesitated. “I didn’t think your boy would want to race again, after…. He’s got tremendous spirit.”

Russ could not have been better complimented. “The prize money in this race is enough to afford him some schooling, a bit of travel. If he wins, I’m giving him my half of course. And Paul promised me he would put up his five-hundred as owner as well, so that he might actually graduate.” 

Viggo and Sean looked up at him curiously then, but he didn’t know what else to say. Paul was different from any other gentleman they had ever met. “Well….” He shook hands with both men and went back to Max to help the boy saddle up. “Max?”

“Aye, sir?”

“You’ve got one person in this race that can outmatch you and Byron. Do you know who it is?”

Max peered around Byron’s leg at the other racers and said after a moment, “Viggo?”

Russ nodded, tugging the boy by the collar until he was close enough that Russ could pin his number – lucky thirteen – on his back. “I know you know how to maneuver around the other ones, but I want you to make sure to save something extra in the way of him. Who knows what kind of racer a wild pony is.”

“Wild, I would expect,” Paul said, walking toward their stall. He had his top hat in his hand – Christ, he was dressed to the nines. Polished Italian leather boots, brown trousers, deep yellow waistcoat, billowed shirt, brown jacket perfectly tailored – he was a vision. 

“My lord,” Russ croaked. 

Paul cocked his head to the side and smiled, seeming to understand. “Mister Crowe. My congratulations on working so hard to get to this point. And young Master Pirkis,” Paul said, grinning at the lad, “for you, I have a gift.” Paul reached behind the lad’s ear and pulled out a shiny ha'penny. “There you are. You’re to put that in your boot today for good luck.”

“Thank you, sir,” Max said, already tugging off one of his boots. Russ smiled because it was – yes – endearing. 

“Is there anything else you need?” Paul asked him quietly. “Anything I might do?”

Russell shook his head, wishing he could kiss Paul, but there were so many jockeys about, each one scrambling around them to get ready to head to the start-line. “We’re as ready as we’ll ever be. Aren’t we, lad?”

“Yes, sir.” Max stood up straight and took up Byron’s reins. “I’ll make you proud, sir.”

Russell helped him put on his black cap and buckled the chin strap. “You’ve already exceeded my expectations on that score, sparrow.” He tugged the boy into a bear hug for less than a second, then shook him playfully and lifted him right up onto Byron’s back. “Now. Get out there and do your best. Open him up. Let him do what he was born to do. Fly.”

“Yes, sir.” Max touched the corner of his cap. “My lord.”

They both watched like nervous parents as Max steered Byron out of the stable. “And Max?” Russell called after him. The boy turned around. “Stay in the saddle this time, lad!”

Blushing and grinning, Max waved and headed off to the start-line. Paul moved closer to Russell but didn’t say anything until everyone had filtered out of the stables. 

“Won’t you be missed, my lord?” Russ asked with a raised eyebrow.

Paul smirked. “Most assuredly. Jason has done nothing but talk my ear off all morning. Poor Jennifer is stuck in the house in her confinement. Mother has had to entertain half the county on her lonesome at brunch.”

Russ smiled, stepping closer – Paul was walking backward into the stall. “He certainly spared no expense. Food, drink, tables, staff... even flags, Paul. You’d think he had something to prove. Wanted to impress someone.”

Tilting his head, Paul gave him a coy smile. “Wonder who that could be?”

Russ couldn’t resist Paul when he was like this – naughty and full of mirth – he joined him in the stall and pressed the younger man up against the back wall. “You’re playing a dangerous game, sir.”

Paul grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him in for a sharp, hungry kiss. “All this talk of horses has done wonders for my libido.”

Russ chuckled. “Is that so?”

“Mm,” Paul murmured, wrapping around him, looking over his shoulder to make sure they were alone. “I’ve been wanting to feel my own stallion between my legs,” he whispered.

Russ braced his hand on the wall and muttered a curse. Paul began sucking at his neck, squeezing his arse. “Paul,” he choked out. “Paul, we can’t. Not here. Someone might see.”

“The idea rather excites me,” Paul whispered, his right hand traveling around Russ’s hip to stroke him through his trousers.

“Tart,” Russ breathed affectionately, thrusting into his hand. A horn sounded – the race would start any minute. Paul kissed him again, wanton and forceful, and then pushed him away. 

“Damn.” The young lord adjusted his trousers. “After the race. If you win, I think I shall make love to you right there on the track, in front of everyone.”

Russ laughed. “Wouldn’t that be a sight? Poor Sir Isaacs would be so very jealous.” He smacked Paul on the arse quite roughly and then strode quickly past him. “I should see to Pirkis.”

He trotted over to the starting line and then slowly walked his way around the horses so as not to spook them. Max had a good place near the inner rim of the track; Viggo was on the other side of him. They were talking.

“…thinking about school. I shouldn’t like to go too far from Russ, though,” he heard Max say.

“Well, I’m sure he’d come visit.” Viggo scratched between Hidalgo’s ears. 

“Sparrow?”

“Sir?”

“You all set?”

“Yes, sir.”

Russ smiled. “Good luck, then.”

The well-to-do had all taken their seats and the horse trainers were lined up along the outer rail. Russell joined Sean, who was busy focusing his binoculars on Viggo. The riders all dug in; the horses were anxious to go.

“Nervous, mate?” Sean asked.

“Nonsense, Bean.” He rubbed his hands together. “I’m bloody terrified.”

Sean snorted. “Me, too.”

At a wave of Isaacs’ hand, the start gun was fired – they were off.

At first it was a blur of color – browns and whites and blacks. Great bulking bodies, bounding forward, moving as one mass, a wave of horseflesh. The jockey’s heads jerked in tandem, their caps and their numbers the only way of telling the men apart. It was a spectacle of chaos for the first lap.

Max and Byron pushed out in front during the second lap, managing to out strip the heavily blacks and out maneuver most of the brown quarters. The white, however, still showed strong on Byron’s heels.

They rounded the bend for the second pass and Russ could feel the railing shake, feel the rumble between his ribs. The gentry were quiet – never the screaming one got at the usual tracks. This was the Ascot crowd. They didn’t care who won, really, so long as they looked good winning.

Russ tightened his hands on the wooden rail and leaned forward. “Come on,” he murmured. 

Viggo, in a surprising move, pushed in from the center around lap three and managed to gain some ground. His caramel and white pony breezed right by fifteen of the thoroughbreds – much to the grumbling dismay of the gentry – and took the lead. 

Max was up in the saddle, knees locked in tight. He used the crop lightly to tell Byron to pick up the pace, the horse kicking up great clumps of dirt as they moved into second position. 

The others were never very far off – each of them were formidable and there was no cause to relax. Russ looked over at Bean, who was frowning into his binoculars. “What is it?”

Sean frowned more deeply. “He’s deep in his saddle. He’s not going all out.”

Russ stole the binoculars and focused to find Viggo. “He rides like a cowboy.”

“He _is_ a cowboy,” Sean argued, stealing the binoculars back. “But I’ve seen him push harder than this.”

Russ shrugged. “There’s still six laps to go. The pony has short legs; maybe he’s conserving energy.”

Sean didn’t say anything, but his frown let Russ know he was thinking deeply. Russ looked up at the hill where the gentry were seated at tables and benches that served as stands and boxes. Most of them were peering through opera glasses – Paul was squinting and leaning forward... Isaacs sat back in his chair and smiled smugly. 

One of the riders took a tumble – the crowd gasped and Russ whipped his head back around. One of the blacks with a white star. Servants rushed forward to help the man limp off the track and take the startled horse away as the racers rounded the bend for the fifth time. Max was still second, Viggo and the Arabian-white neck and neck for first. 

Russell measured his breath as if he were Max, as if doing this would help Max to concentrate, to blend with him, to share his calm. He watched Byron’s powerful legs draw up tight to the body, reach out to grab a stretch of earth, and then push – _push_ to gain momentum. 

They stayed this way for the next three laps, everyone tiring, everyone locking into place. The others trailed behind – only Hidalgo and the Arabian-white were of concern now. Unless one of the mounts had an exceptional last gust of speed no one could anticipate... Suddenly Viggo was up in this saddle, his hat in his hand, smacking against Hidalgo’s rear, and they were flying. 

Hidalgo took the lead – the white Arabian dropping back – listing to the left, boxing Max in against the inner rail.

Russ stood on the lower rung of the outer rail and shouted, “Max, the rail!” but of course, the lad couldn’t hear him. It was horrific – the exact same thing that had happened last time. 

Byron was squeezed tight between the inner rail and the white Arabian, very little room for error. Max’s face looked tight and pale. He leaned forward and grabbed the reins, using his thighs to urge Byron faster, faster, until they had punched their way through the invisible barrier, the white Arabian a good half-length behind.

Straining with all his might, Max drove Byron further and further as they completed the ninth lap, until he was tied beside Viggo. He had the advantage. He was smaller, slighter. He was riding a seasoned thoroughbred. He had the inside track. Yet still, Viggo was putting up an exquisite fight, the horses so close they could have been shadows of one another. 

Russ’s hands gripped the railing tighter, tighter. They were rounding the last bend – earth and clay flying as the wild pony and the black stallion fought to get one extra inch ahead of one another as they hurtled toward the finish line. 

Max hunkered down, pulling his upper body into a ball, his legs pushing Byron on. Viggo…. Russ couldn’t believe it. He snatched Sean’s binoculars right out of his hands and stared at the racing champion. Sean was pulled close to him and complained loudly but he didn’t care – Viggo was easing up a hair’s breath on the reins, folding back in the saddle an inch or two. Slowing down just enough that – 

Max won the race! He saw the red ribbon break over Byron’s chest!

The crowd cheered – very unBritish like – people getting up and clapping one another on the backs, the ladies’ gloved hands making a muffled noise. They were happy a British street rat stable-hand won over a damned American cowboy on a pony. Especially on an English track. 

For a moment he looked at Isaacs – his expression was absolutely sour and in fact somewhat ashen. Paul was beaming at him; Russell prayed he wouldn’t make good on his promise to fuck right there on the track. He glanced at Sean – who was just looking at him affectionately. 

“What?”

Sean took the binoculars from him. “I guess the lad will be attending school next autumn, then.”

Russ felt something like tears well up, but of course, he wasn’t a crying sort of man. “Is that why Viggo pulled back at the last moment?”

He held Sean’s surprised gaze for a moment before the man broke. “He’s never lost a race, Russ. Until today.”

“Against your twelve-year-old son; what an odd coincidence.” Russ shook his head. “Doesn’t it take something out of the victory if it was handed to him?”

Sean licked his lips. “Rusty. Viggo didn’t hand my son the race.” He looked out at the track, where the riders were slowly coming back, exhausted. “He handed him a future.”

Russ looked at the ecstatic expression on Pirkis’ face – God could probably see that smile from heaven. And though Russ was sad, because he knew this victory meant the boy would have to leave him, it was everything he’d ever wanted for Max, come true. He smiled. Sean had a lover that loved him enough to suffer public defeat of his perfect record at the hands of a twelve-year-old stable boy. “You lucky son of a bitch.”

Sean hooked an arm around his neck and knuckled his head. He laughed, clapping the man on the back as they made their way over to the horses. 

Max slowly moved Byron toward them and when he reached Russell, he melted off the saddle and into Russ’s waiting arms with a sigh. “I... did it... sir....”

Russ lowered him down, cradling him a bit, and kissed his head. “You sure did.”

Viggo came over and winked at Sean, then tipped his hat to Russell and Max. “Nice riding, little man.”

“Thank you, sir,” Max said, still out of breath. He frowned. “My legs feel like jelly.”

They all chuckled. 

While the other riders headed back to the stables, the gentry all gathered around Byron. Lady Bettany came forward in her lavender frock with a bizarre lavender hat that only the rich could get away with – and put a wreath of flowers around the horse’s head. She then leaned down to give Max a kiss on the cheek – which, apparently, he’d outgrown minding terribly much. Or, at least, _showing_ that he minded very much. 

There were choruses of congratulations and invitations to future races and wishes for continued luck – and then after a few minutes of fame and triumph, the crowd moved off, back to the sculptured lawn that was more appropriate for their class, anxious to begin the post-race picnic.

Isaacs smiled like a damned snake and shook his hand. “Well done, Mister Crowe. Master Pirkis. I see you’ve learned much since staying here at Pembyrn with Viggo.” He shot Viggo a withering glare. 

Russ had to bite his lip. He wanted to say that _he_ trained Max. That Isaacs had no right to be a poor loser at his own race. Russell also wanted to punch the man for the way he put his hands on Max’s shoulders and squeezed gently. 

But Paul came up to them then, picking Max up and twirling him around. “Hail the conquering hero!” Max giggled a bit. 

“My lord!”

Paul leaned down until they were face to face. “You and I have much to discuss. But for now, all you need to think about is – Eton?”

Max frowned. “I can’t afford much more than a year on fifty pounds, sir. I’d rather just buy a place in the Navy and save up.”

The young lord touched Max’s nose with the tip of his long white finger. “You’ve actually got six-hundred pounds, dear boy. I’m donating my winnings today to your education – and I rather expect you to be the best... uh... horse racing-naturalist-sailor-doctor-mathematician-writer-teacher there is.”

Max wrapped his arms around Paul’s neck then and squeezed – such that Paul groaned and his eyes popped out a bit – and then he let go and ran right over to Russell. “Is it true, Russ? Can I go? Can I?”

“Yes, lad.” Damnation. He would _not_ cry. “Yes.”

The boy let out a whoop and did a little dance. “Ooh-da-lollie!”

They all laughed, well, everyone but Isaacs, who still looked a little ashen. “Well, this is excellent news. How very fine.” He cleared his throat. “But you know, I was thinking, with the lad going away to school and all, you won’t have a jockey, Paulie.”

Paul straightened up. “No, I suppose I won’t have, for a while. Unless of course, I put Mister Crowe on a severe diet.” He smiled sweetly at Russell.

Isaacs pursed his lips. “That’s a shame. All those beautiful horses... Well, you could always sell them to me, you know. I’ll take Byron today; name your price.” He shot Viggo another scathing glance. “I think it best I stick with thoroughbreds from here on out.”

“Not for sale,” Paul said simply, still smiling at Russell. 

“Oh, come now.” Isaacs shifted his weight and rattled his cane on the ground. “You’ve got no rider after the autumn. Or... perhaps you plan to race this summer?”

Paul glanced at the lad. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Either way, he’s staying at Thistle Hawk. For sentimental reasons.”

This did not impress Sir Isaacs. “I can see I’ll have to persuade you, Paulie. That horse was born to race.”

“Yes,” Paul said sharply. “And he will. But not for Pembyrn.” A new smile – one Russ had never seen on Paul before, one that quite clearly told Isaacs to bugger off – spread fleetingly over the young lord’s face. “Now, I expect Master Pirkis and Mister Crowe have to attend to Byron, and then wash and dress. I assume the winners are invited to my party picnic?”

Isaacs’ cheek muscle twitched. “Why yes, of course.”

“Excellent.” Paul held up his arm for his mother’s hand. “Mister Crowe, we’ll see you in a half hour for tea.”

“My lord.” Russell bowed to Paul’s back, sliding a glance at Sir Isaacs. 

“Do try and wear a jacket, Crowe. If you have one,” Isaacs murmured under his breath. “Viggo? You and I must talk?” 

Viggo seemed prepared for this , murmuring to his horse and handing Hidalgo’s reins to Sean, following the man a little way toward the track. Russ knew immediately this conversation meant trouble. He took Bryon’s reins and looped an arm around Max.

“Will he be sacked?” he asked Sean, voice low.

Sean shrugged. “With Isaacs, it’s impossible to tell. He really wanted to win this race for some reason.”

“No doubt to save face – or rub Paul’s in it. I do hope he isn’t sacked.”

Again, Sean shrugged. “We’ve been talking of going to America.” Russ looked over at him in surprise. “Now that Max will be off at school, it doesn’t seem such a far-fetched notion.”

“I see.” Everyone would be leaving him, then. Every one but the most important one, of course. “Are you resolved?”

“For the most part.” Sean glanced down at Max. “I wanted to see how the idea sat with everybody first.”

Max smiled up at him. “I think it’s a good idea. That way when I am done with school, I can visit and meet real live Indians.”

Sean grinned and shook his head. “Christ.”

Russell laughed. They headed into the stables – most of the other jockeys clapped for them – and then set about seeing to Byron. He had to be rubbed down, groomed, massaged a bit and given plenty of water and oats. Russ took his time with the horse, then rushed to get himself ready.

Sean lent him a clean shirt and he changed right there in the stables into his one good suit. For Max he had packed a blue velvet coat with gold trim – something he splurged on for these kinds of occasions – and then they both combed their hair. 

“How do we look?” Russ asked.

“Like a million pounds,” Sean said as he brushed down Hidalgo.

“Or at least,” Viggo said behind them, “six-hundred.”

Russ looked Viggo up and down. “Everything all right?”

Shrugging, the racer said, “It will be. You’d best get to that party before all those rich folks eat everything up. They’ve got those little cakes that are the size of a lady’s finger. What do you suppose those are called?”

“Lady’s fingers,” Sean said, shaking his head. Right endearing, that.

“Well there you go then.” Viggo winked at Max. 

“You go on along, lad, I’ll be right there,” Russ said. He waited until the boy was out of the stable before turning back. “You’re not sacked, are you?”

“I’ve given my notice.”

“Damn,” Russ swore.

Viggo held up his hands. “It’s a good thing, partner. I don’t like working for any man, let alone a man like that. Besides, my horse doesn’t like him. I’m actually looking forward to getting back home.” He glanced at Sean. “That is….”

“When do we have to be packed?” Sean asked, smiling softly.

Viggo let out a breath he’d been holding. “Tomorrow?”

It was like a punch to Russ’s gut. “So soon? I’m sure you’d be welcome at Thistle Hawk.” 

Sean turned to look at him. “Hosting us might put Lord Bettany in a bit of a tight spot with his brother-in-law. Still... one day... There’s too much to do at the stables, Vig. How about the end of the week?”

Viggo shrugged. “Sure. I’ll be staying at the inn in town, though. I’ll have to board Hidalgo.”

Sean shook his head. “Day after tomorrow, then.”

“I’m sorry, mate,” Russ said. 

“I’m not.” Viggo smiled then – it reached all the way up to his eyes – as he turned to pat Hidalgo on the neck. “Go on, then. I’ll meet you in the pasture. You know the one.” The horse nodded and walked right out of the stable.

Russell gaped. “You... he... Your horse understands English?”

“Yeah. Cherokee, too.” Viggo tipped his hat, squeezed Sean’s hand, gathered up his saddle and walked out. “How else do you think I got him to slow down ten feet from the ribbon?” 

Grinning, Sean followed him.

“Lucky son of a bitch!” Russ called after his best friend. He folded his collar over his jacket and went to join Max at the picnic.

~*~

Russell was having a miserable time with the gentry. First of all, he was afraid to touch anything. The linens on the tables were a kind of white he didn’t think could _exist_ on earth. The glasses were real, imported crystal. The liquor never stopped. There was even a tower of champagne. 

He’d been all over the world; he’d seen all walks of life. But this... this made him uncomfortable. The napkins alone probably cost as much as his suit. 

“Mister Crowe, good of you to come,” Dr. Irons said warmly. He shook the man’s hand and smiled over at Max. They spoke for a while, before Paul came over and touched his arm with two slender fingers.

He introduced Russ to a circle of the elite, each of whom nodded congratulations but wouldn’t think to shake his hand. “This is Duke Rupert Everett.”

“Your grace.” Russell nodded. 

Duke Everett pinned him with his gaze a moment, then looked over at Paul, and then back at him and _smiled_ like the cat that got the canary. “So good to meet you. Finally.”

“Sir?” Russ frowned.

“Mister Crowe this, Mister Crowe that. Ceaseless since Christmas,” Everett said by way of explanation. “Come. Have some champagne.” 

Russ was handed a glass and drank deeply. He didn’t eat. He couldn’t really; too keyed up. The race, the win, now Viggo and Sean leaving, Max chattering away with Dr. Irons about school and then hopping from table to table, the newest acquisition in conversation-topic among the gentry. It was all very bright and busy and so he spent most of his time staring out over the valley, watching the shadows of puffy white clouds pass over the green. 

Luckily people took his silence as marked diffidence for their superior station and settled for smiling at him. A few of Lady Isaacs’ friends whispered about him and even pointed fingers, giggling. But then, they did that to Paul, too. Women could be very silly. They’d have no trouble getting the vote if they were all like Lady Isaacs. A shame she had to watch the events of today from her windows.

He sighed. Russ was happy because Paul was happy. Every so often, their eyes would meet and Russell would thrill at the promise the evening held. Eventually, however, most of the guests begged off, clamoring into their fancy carriages before night fell. 

Lady Bettany was gracious enough to say goodbye to each, but Sir Isaacs could not be found. Paul assumed his place, wishing the departing guests well, but he shot Russ a worried glance. Nodding, he went to look for their host.

He checked with the servants – no one had seen him in the house. He walked the grounds and peered down at the track – empty but for the hall boy and stable-hands cleaning up. So he went to the stables, which were now nearly deserted. It was there he heard Isaacs’ soft growl.

“Nemo me impune. Do you know what that means?” Angry, seductive.

“Second to none,” he heard Max say. 

“Oh, you’ve learned some Latin. How gratifying.” 

Russ turned the corner to see Isaacs leaning one hand on Byron’s gate, the other resting on his hip, his face looming over Max. Max looked more than a little nervous.

“Lord Bettany taught me.”

“Lord Bettany,” Isaacs bit off. “Yes.” A beat. “‘Second to none’ is the motto my Scots Greys had. And we _were_ second to none. I’m not very good at losing.” He stroked a finger down the boy’s smooth cheek. “Though I suppose the fact that one as pretty as you beat me softens the blow somewhat.”

“Sir?” Max stepped back.

“Don’t be frightened, lad.” Russ could hear the false smile in the man’s voice. “I shall tell you a secret. I didn’t really ask you to the stables because I wanted to see Byron.”

“No?”

“No. I wanted to see _you_.” Isaacs folded his arms and walked forward, backing Max up. Byron became restless, no doubt feeding from Max’s discomfort.

“For what purpose, sir?”

Isaacs chuckled. “For this purpose.” He grabbed the boy and brought him up close, one rough hand rubbing down the lad’s chest and across his belly. “I so like beautiful things, you see.”

Max gasped and struggled, but Isaacs’ grip on his bad arm was fierce. 

Russell strode forward then. “Isaacs!” he bellowed.

The man whirled around, bringing the boy up in front of him. “Bugger off, Crowe. This is no affair of yours.”

Russell stopped a few feet away. “Put the boy down, and face me, you spineless coward.”

Isaacs’ nostrils flared. “You _dare_ to speak to me in such a manner? I shall have your tongue removed.”

“Bold words from a man that would prey upon one small lad.” Russell clenched his fists. “Take. Your hands. Off. My boy.”

“Your boy…?” Smirking, Isaacs drew Max up short. “Are you actually going to fight me, Crowe? How provincial. Still,” he threw Max up against Byron’s stall – the latch came loose and the boy tumbled inside, “it could be entertaining.”

They went at each other then. Russell managed to land in a few good punches to Isaacs’ gut before taking a swift right hook to his left eye. He stumbled backward and Isaacs was on him, pushing him head first into the bars of one of the stalls. He bled, then. 

Isaacs kneed him in the stomach and pounded down on his back. Russell fell but tumbled away, rolling back up to his feet. “I grew up with four older brothers, you bastard. You’ll have to do better than that.” He spat blood on the floor.

Tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear, Isaacs smiled. “Very well.” He walked to the wall and took up Sean’s pitchfork. Then he ran at Russell at full-steam. 

“Je _sus_ ,” Russ cried, lunging back. He ducked out of the way and side-stepped around Isaacs. 

Byron got free of his stall and began running up and down the stables, neighing loudly. Max was chasing after him, but there were no reins by which to hold him. 

He ducked another jab of the pitchfork. Remembering suddenly, Russ reached into his boot and pulled out Paul’s carved bone dagger. 

Isaacs tsked him. “It’s so small, Crowe. Are we to reenact David and Goliath?”

Gritting his teeth, Russ snatched the end of Isaacs’ pitchfork. “As I recall, that one went well for David.” His hand went out in a flash and cut the sleeve of Isaacs’ coat. He did that deliberately, not wishing to actually draw blood, but wanting to prove he could if Isaacs pushed him. 

Throwing the pitchfork violently to the floor, Isaacs tackled him to the ground. They rolled over and over among the hay, struggling, sweating, straining against one another. Russell was surprised – the fancy clothes had made the other man appear smaller, weak. But in truth, he was solid muscle, heat, and hate. 

Byron began raising up on his hind legs.

Isaacs grabbed up his wrists and _twisted_ until Russ was certain he would snap. The dagger clattered to the floor and he groaned. He brought his knee up, but Isaacs blocked it with his thighs, scrambling over him to get the knife. 

Russell struggled valiantly but Isaacs was too quick – he had the dagger poised overhead and laughed in Russ’s face. He hissed at Russell, “Ah! Stupid brute. No one’s going to miss you when I tell them you walked off with the prize money. Oh. And I’m going to bugger your little boy over your _corpse_ before this day is done!”

Russ surged up, but he could already see Isaacs’ arm striking down and then –

Clunk!

Isaacs’ eyes rolled up into the back of his head and crumpled over on top of Russell. Breathing heavy, he pushed the man over onto the straw – Issacs' head gushed a river of blood.

Russ looked up to see Sean Bean crouching over him, a large, bloodied horseshoe hammer in his raised fist. “Bean?”

“Rusty.” Sean looked over at Isaacs. “Is he dead?”

Byron was still bucking madly about, kicking at the stalls, bashing in the doors and beams. Russ shot off the ground and pulled Sean down with him, one of Byron’s hooves narrowly missing Sean’s head. 

“Woah, woah, ease up now,” Viggo said from the stable’s entrance. He talked softly, not moving until Byron was still, standing transfixed. Viggo then led him by the jaw to his stall and put him away, locking him up tight. He picked up Max from out of a large pile of hay and they both walked over to Sean and Russ. “What happened?”

“Oh God,” Sean whispered. “I killed him.”

Viggo crouched down, bringing Sean up to his feet. “Sean. Breathe.”

Sean took a few gulps of air, starting to shiver slightly. “He was going to kill Russell and rape my son.”

Russ lunged out and drew Max close. “Are you hurt? Is any part of you hurt? How’s your arm?”

The boy’s eyes were huge – black, black pupils and a faraway look. Shock. He shook Max a bit until he said, “Fine, sir. I’m fine.” Hollow. Wooden. He held the lad close.

“Oh fuck,” Sean swore, folding into Viggo’s arms. “I killed him.”

Russell frowned. Sean was really shaken. Despite going into the Army, he’d never actually had to kill anyone. 

Viggo stroked his blond hair and narrowed his eyes. He looked around the stable, assessed the damage with a clear, sharp gaze. “What did you do it with?”

Sean pointed to the hammer in the hay. Viggo strode over, picked it up, dipped it in Isaacs’ pooling blood and walked away. 

“What are you doing?” Russ asked. 

Viggo climbed into Byron’s stall, murmuring softly, and painted the horse’s hind hooves with Isaacs’ blood. Then he climbed out, wiped the hammer on some hay, and threw it into a pile of manure. “Put away that knife, Russ.”

Glancing over, Russ saw Paul’s dagger. He quickly put it in his boot. “You’ve a clear head, Viggo,” he said with respect. 

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?” Sean asked. 

“Sir Isaacs.” Viggo cupped Sean’s face. “Sir Isaacs came to the stable to see the winning horse and it got spooked – kicked the doors, kicked the beams – kicked him right in the back of the head. And he fell over here, in this hay.” A quick glance at Russell. “Russ here tried to stop him, but was too late, and got a hoof in the eye for his trouble.

Russ was impressed. More than impressed. He held Max close; watched Viggo hold Sean. They both looked at each other. “You’d better get on a boat to America tonight, if possible.”

“I had come back to get our things,” Sean said, calming slightly. 

“It’s a good thing you did, or I’d be dead right now.” Russ looked around, dragging a hand through his hair. “Go. Write to me when you’ve settled. I’ll send you your things, mate.”

Viggo nodded. “Thanks, Russ. Come on, love. We’ve got to go. They’ll find him soon. Come on.”

Russ and Sean looked at each other for a long time – there weren’t words. They came together, clung. “Thanks, big brother,” Russ whispered only loud enough for Sean to hear.

The older man sobbed for a moment, kissed him, and then turned to scoop up Max. “Lad, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Max hugged him. “You better go now. Go now... Da.”

Viggo laid a hand on the boy’s head as Sean put him down, they both lingered for a moment, and then swiftly walked out the door. Russ watched them until they reached Hidalgo in the pasture. He made sure they were out of sight before turning back to Max. 

“You all right?”

Max nodded. 

“You know the story?”

Again, the boy nodded. 

“All right then. Stay here.” Taking a deep breath, Russell ran up the hill toward the manor. “Lord Bettany! Someone! Someone fetch Doctor Irons! Help!”


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15: Duet**

Paul and Mother had just waved goodbye to the last of the guests, save Dr. Irons, who was invited to supper, when Russell came running up the hill, screaming.

He snapped around at his lover’s panicked voice, hands coming out of his pockets and stretching out to Russell before the man even made it to him. Panting, Russ choked out the horrid news. 

“Doc… Doctor Irons. Something’s happened to Sir Isaacs. In the stables!” 

They all rushed down the hill toward the stables – the scene was a wreck. Splintered wood, broken stall doors, at least one shattered beam. Hay everywhere. And blood. A large pool of blood under Jason’s opened head. 

“Oh my God,” Paul breathed.

Mother sobbed and turned away; Dr. Irons went immediately to assess the body. He took one look at the wound, held two fingers to Jason’s throat, and then closed the man’s eyes fully. “He’s quite dead.”

Mother began crying on his shoulder. He looked over at Russell, mouth open. 

“Sir Isaacs asked Max to show him Byron – wanted to buy him. The horse got spooked, loud noise... I think the pitchfork fell off the wall... He whipped into a panic and started kicking out. I tried... My eye... He was hit in the head....” Russ looked back and forth between Paul and Dr. Irons.

Dr. Irons carefully checked the head wound again, and the puffy bruise on Russ’s eye, and raised an eyebrow. “Yes,” Dr. Irons said softly. “Speaking as a doctor, I can tell that’s exactly what happened.” He exchanged a glance with Paul. “Paul, perhaps you’d better take your mother up to the manor. Mister Crowe and I will see to the body.”

“Yes, sir.” He looked long and hard at Russell – there was more to this, but no time to talk in private. “Come, Mother.”

They went to the house where he got Mother a strong glass of sherry. His own hand started shaking. Jennifer came down into the drawing room. “How was the race?” Then she saw Mother’s face – she immediately went over and stood beside the weeping woman.

“Mother! Whatever’s the matter?” Jenny looked at him and Paul opened his mouth. He couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t do it to her. She was eight months pregnant and widowed. 

“Jennifer,” he whispered, holding out his hands. She grasped them up. “You... You will always have a place with me. I want you to hold on to that thought because there’s something dreadful I must tell you.”

Mother started sobbing again and Jennifer began to panic. “Paulie?”

“Your husband,” he said, “was kicked in the head by a horse. He’s dead.”

Jenny stood there, struck dumb. She didn’t tremble. She didn’t twitch. Eventually she shook her head. “No. It’s not true. It _can’t_ be true.”

“Dearest,” Mother wailed. “We saw it ourselves. Your father’s stupid horse killed him.”

Paul thinned his lips and held Jenny’s shoulders. “He’s gone, Jenny. I’m so, so sorry. I don’t want you to worry about anything, the baby, nothing – I’m going to take care of you. I’ll get you through this.”

Frowning, she stammered out, “A horse....” Turning from him, breaking his hold, she ran out of the room and into the backgrounds. Paul shot after her, terrified of her delicate condition. 

They reached the stable doors just as Dr. Irons and Russell were carrying Jason out, wrapped in a thick horse blanket. Jennifer reached up and unraveled it, then screamed, collapsing against the wall. She wailed.

“Paul,” Dr. Irons said. 

He tore Jenny away as Russell and Dr. Irons grimly continued to carry Sir Isaacs to the house. In the commotion the servants came out, the familiar chaos ensuing, and Paul thought he might be sick. Sick. Because deep, deep down, he was so very, very glad.

“My lord?” a tiny voice said beside him. Little Max Pirkis, tugging on his sleeve. 

“Did you see this happen, child?” Paul asked quietly. The boy nodded. He drew him close, holding Jenny on his right and the boy on his left. “It was Byron.”

“Shoot it. Put it down, Paulie!” Jennifer shouted. 

“No, no!” Max shouted back, clasping onto him with both hands. “It wasn’t his fault! Sir Isaacs spooked him!”

“Jason was the kindest soul alive!” Jennifer said heatedly. “That horse is dangerous!”

“Don’t kill him, my lord, _please_ don’t kill him. It’s my fault, I should have controlled him!” Max began to sob. Jenny took up sobbing again. He just held them both. 

“There’s been enough death for tonight,” he sighed. He stroked the boy’s hair. “Max, go see if you can be of help to Russell and Dr. Irons."

“You won’t...?”

“Byron is locked up tight, yes?” The boy nodded. “Then nothing else need be done.”

Jenny shook against him. “Paulie —”

“We’ll need to see to your husband’s funeral and wake, Jenny. You let me worry about the horse.” He steered her slowly up the hill and back into the house. 

The rest of the evening was a flurry of activity. Servants rushing about. Dr. Irons sewing up Jason’s head wound to stop the bleeding – a terrible purple bubble of blood formed at the man’s temple, but Dr. Irons assured it would stop now that the heart was no longer pumping. Dr. Irons insisted Jenny have nothing other than parsley tea to calm her nerves – he firmly believed, against modern medial opinion, that women in pregnancy should not take tonics or drugs. 

Mother spent most of her time consoling Jennifer up in her room. Paul worked with the servants to send word to the town’s undertaker to fetch the body, and also sent out a call to the parish for someone to help say a prayer and make arrangements for the funeral. Russell stood in the corner with his hands on Max’s shoulders, looking very dazed. Eventually all the servants filtered out of the room and only they and Dr. Irons were left. 

“Paul,” Russ said softly. “Do _not_ put Byron down.”

“Especially since the poor horse didn’t kill anybody,” Dr. Irons said, equally softly. 

“What?” Paul breathed. 

Dr. Irons’ lips twitched. “Dear lad. The blow to Jason’s head could never have been caused by a hoof. It was made by something extremely flat and with concentrated force. And Mister Crowe’s eye suffered no more than a fist – if he’d been kicked, he’d probably be blind by now, at least.” The doctor shifted in his chair. “So. What really happened?” 

Paul looked back and forth between Dr. Irons and Russell. 

His lover swallowed. “He attacked me.”

“Really?” Dr. Irons said. “Why?”

“Because we won the race.”

“You’ll have to do better than that, Mister Crowe,” Dr. Irons said quite pleasantly. “I’ve known Jason Isaacs for going on ten years. He’s a sore loser, but not enough to murder over it.”

“He attacked _me_ ,” Max spoke up. 

Paul shifted. “What?”

“Be quiet,” Russell said, squeezing Max’s shoulders. “He attacked us both. Jealous rage.”

Dr. Irons narrowed his eyes but said nothing. Paul took in Max’s haunted expression – looked down and saw Russell’s bruised wrist. “Jason attacked Max... sexually. Didn’t he?”

Everyone looked at him. “Didn’t he?”

The boy opened his mouth and then closed it. Russ closed his eyes and nodded. Dr. Irons crossed his legs. “That’s more like Jason.”

Paul gaped at him. “Doctor Irons?”

The man smiled gently. “Dear Lord Bettany. You are so kind; you’re surprised to find evil in other people. Like I said, I’ve known Jason Isaacs for ten years. I’ve treated him for everything – I’ve examined him intimately. I know more about his sexual escapades than anyone. Although I had hoped he would settle down once married to your sister.” Dr. Irons steepled his fingers. “So, Mister Crowe, you were defending your boy.”

“Yes,” Russell said, and this time it was obvious to all he was telling the truth. 

“Well.” Dr. Irons patted the arms of his wing chair. “You’ve cost me my most well-paying client. It’s a good thing I like you – I won’t say a word. Sir Jason Isaacs was tragically killed by a spooked horse. It happens every day.”

Paul’s mind flashed to James – to his broken young body on the ground. He remembered Jason’s forceful advances; his father’s crushing blows. Rubbing his temple, he sat down swiftly on an ottoman. 

“Lord Bettany?” Dr. Irons asked, coming over to him. “Paul?”

“I think I need to lie down....” And he did, right there on the floor. Russ was at his side, holding his hand – which of course must have looked strange to Dr. Irons but then the man seemed to have a relaxed attitude about them to begin with. 

“Mister Crowe, help me get him up to bed. That’s what everyone in this room needs – rest.” He leaned heavily on Russell, stealing some security from the man’s heat and strength, all the way up the stairs. Jenny was still crying in her room along with Mother. 

They laid him on the bed and Dr. Irons methodically started undressing him. Russell helped while Max keep close to the wall. Tucking him up under the covers, Dr. Irons said, “I’m going to look after your sister. I don’t like the idea of giving her a sleeping powder, but at this rate, it might be more harmful to the child to let her get so upset. You’ll be all right?”

“Yes, Doctor. Thank you. And thank you... for your discretion.”

Dr. Irons nodded to them all, pointed at Max and said, “Bed, young man,” and then closed the door behind him. 

“Max?” Russell called. 

“I’m all right, sir. Just a little shaken. And sorry to be the cause of all this.”

Paul groaned. “ _Nothing_ about this is your fault, son.” He rubbed his eyes. “I think it was me. I refused his advances and then when I came back from Europe... I don’t know. He couldn’t get to me anymore. He must have turned his attentions to you while I was gone. He’d said he’d had his eye on someone... I didn’t think a child, but....”

“Hush,” Russ said. “Both of you. None of this is your fault. The man was a sick, sadistic bastard. Now he’s dead. As far as I’m concerned, he isn’t worth a second thought.”

Paul frowned. “How can you kill a man and not give it a second thought?”

Russ said nothing for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “Paul. Snakes have fangs filled with venom. That doesn’t necessarily make them evil. But if one threatens to bite your child, you cut its head off. That’s not saying no to the snake, that’s saying no to the situation. Isaacs was the worst sort of snake. He came after Max and I did what I had to do. If you want me to go around the rest of my days banging my chest and shouting mea culpa, you’re going to be sorely disappointed."

Paul shut his eyes. “I don’t want that,” he whispered. “I understand what you’re saying. Max? There are rooms next door. Smaller quarters, meant for a baby. But there’s a servant’s cot in there. Why don’t you bed down for the night? I’ll be close by.” 

Max nodded, looking like he would drop from exhaustion. He went into the other room and Paul could hear him chuck off his shoes and tumble into the bed. 

“I’ll be right back,” Russell said, moving to check in on the lad. A minute later he returned. “Already asleep.”

“He’s had a bit of a day,” Paul said simply. 

“So have you. Are you still feeling faint?” Russ walked over and sat on the other side of the bed. 

“I’m feeling... lost without you. Come under the covers and hold me?”

The older man looked to the doors and bit his lip then nodded and began to undress. Once in bed together, Paul wrapped around him. Russell was almost desperate then. His kisses were fervent, devouring. They tangled together, Russ thrusting slowly between his legs. 

“I need you,” Russ breathed over his mouth. 

Paul nodded, turning over, spreading his legs, using his hands to open himself. Russell bent down, laving him, slicking the way, and he moaned a little, grinding into the bed. The older man used his fingers to stretch him and then thrust in, slow, thick, insistent. He set up an old rhythm, driving, claiming, and Paul rubbed his cheek against the pillow and sighed because it hurt so wonderfully. 

Russ bit into his shoulder and began jabbing his prick into Paul’s heat, until Paul began thrusting back. It wasn’t until the end when Russell snapped, fucking him brutally for a moment, and then they’d come, that he heard it – Russell was quietly crying. 

He turned back around and held Russ close to his chest, hands threading in that mass of brown hair. “My love,” he said, over and over again, until Russell cried himself to sleep. 

~*~

The funeral was an utter disaster. Jason was buried on the family plot on the farthest side of the eastern lands. Folks from the county came, but not too many. Sir Isaacs was well respected but not very well liked. His military companions wouldn’t have had time to make the journey. However, the debt collectors didn’t fail to show up around the end of the service. 

They said the Lord’s Prayer and Jenny spread a fistful of earth on the coffin, and then everyone departed. There was no wake, the guests all left early out of diffidence to Jennifer’s unmentionable condition. 

Paul guided her across the lawn, their mother, Dr. Irons, and the servants behind them, when the debt collectors came striding up to them. 

“S’cuse me, Guv'nor, might I have a word?”

He stopped and swept the little sallow-faced man with his gaze. “What is so pressing that you would dare to interrupt my family on this day?”

The man handed him a stack of papers. “My condolences to your family, sir, but it’s me job to serve these papers. Sir Isaacs is owing twenty-thousand-pounds and some change. As you’re the man of the house, if you don’t pay up, we’ll have to foreclose the manor.”

Jennifer gasped. “What!”

Paul read the papers out loud as the men walked away. It was true – Jason had run up debts upon debts since he was in school. He made poor investments, bought extravagantly, and gambled terribly – probably that was the entire plot behind the tournament – a chance to get back some money to pay the lenders. 

“Is there any way you could pay it?” Mother asked. 

Paul could feel the blood drain from his head. “Not and keep Thistle Hawk, no. No. I’m afraid I can’t keep Pembyrn for you, Jenny.”

Devastated, Jennifer broke down in tears. “But where shall I go? What shall I have to give our child?”

Paul swallowed. “Why, Thistle Hawk of course. I shall want you there until the end of our days.”

“But, Paulie, that is _your_ inheritance. For your children.” 

Paul dried her tears with his pocket handkerchief. “There, now, it’s ours. Our home. Yours, even. You mustn’t worry about this, Jennifer, I shall always care for you.” He wrapped an arm around her. “You’ve too much on you right now. Think of nothing but getting your things together for home.” He glanced at Mother. “Mother will help you. I will inform the servants to begin shutting up the house. Between the possessions, the land, and the horses, you should be able to break even with the lenders.”

A fresh wave of tears as Mother led Jenny back to the house. Paul sighed. It simply couldn’t get more nerve-wracking than this. 

~*~

He was wrong. It absolutely could get more nerve-wracking, he thought, pacing the bottom of the stairs at Thistle Hawk. 

It was two weeks later, and Pembyrn had been dismantled. He’d kept on Jenny’s lady’s maid and the young stable lad that Sean Bean was training. He’d took in the boy because Russell would need to teach _someone_ to race the horses now that Max would be going to Eton. The other servants he’d had to let go. Curiously, Sean Bean and Viggo Mortensen were nowhere to be found, but Russell had mentioned they’d probably gone on after the race and Paul had greater things on his mind. 

Like his sister, who at the moment, was upstairs with Mother and Dr. Irons giving birth to her first child. 

Guy Pearce, upon receiving Jenny’s express that she’d been widowed, raced from the wilds of India to Thistle Hawk in order to provide her some support. Paul thought this a tad strange, but he honestly couldn’t find anything wrong with the fellow – he was handsome, articulate, modest, and clearly in love with his sister. There was the small matter of him being a penniless rake, but any man that would join him as Paul wore a hole out in the rug, pacing back and forth, was a good man. 

For over an hour, the only sound in the room was their footsteps and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the drawing room. 

“Nervous, sir?” Mr. Edgar asked. 

“Christ!” Paul gasped, nearly coming out of his skin. “Mister Edgar, I didn’t hear you.”

“Sorry, sir. It’s only, you reminded me for a moment of your father, on the night young Master James was born.”

Paul nodded. He didn’t want to think about James. Or his father. Or Jason. Or anyone dead and gone and disappointed in him. “Yes. Well. It’s her first, you know, and I’ve heard these things can be dangerous.”

“Jenny’s strong,” Guy said kindly. “And I’ve heard Doctor Irons is a right genius.”

“Yes, quite.” Paul rubbed his forehead. 

“Would my lord and his guest like some tea?” Mr. Edgar said, as if tea were the answer to everything. 

“No, thank you.” Just then, he heard Jenny scream. “Yes, yes, tea would be fine, I’d love some.”

“Tea’s a bonzer idea,” Guy said overtop of him. 

“Very good, sirs.” Mr. Edgar went to fetch their magical tea.

Paul looked at Guy’s drawn and worried face – this man had traveled hundreds of miles to be of comfort to his sister. He seemed beside himself with nerves on her account. What’s more, something about this man made Paul trust him, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He was a scoundrel... who rescued baby tigers. The same way Russ was dangerous, but tamed nervous horses.

“You’re in love with my sister,” Paul stated gently.

Guy was shocked, but recovered well. “It’s kind of hard not to be, mate.”

“Yes. She’s only two weeks widowed,” he reminded.

Guy grinned. “I hadn’t thought to propose tonight.”

“But you had thought to propose.” Upstairs, another scream, and Paul winced. He walked Guy over to the fireplace because the young man looked like he wanted to dash up the staircase to Jenny’s side. 

“Well, I don’t rightly know. How she feels, I mean. I thought I’d... take board in town... be a friend to her, like... See how things go in a bit.” Guy shrugged. “That all right with you, mate?”

Paul sighed. “Normally, yes. You seem a very good sort of fellow and Jenny certainly is intrigued with you….”

“But?” Guy stiffened. “Is it ‘cause I’m Australian?”

“Heavens, no. It’s because you’re... an adventurer. And Jennifer is giving birth to a child. She’s not exactly up for exotic locales and grave robbing, do you see my meaning?”

Guy nodded. “You’re a good brother. I know exactly what you’re meaning. I think Jennifer has more of an adventurous spirit than you might realize... But... what if I was to tell you, I’d give it all up – all of it, and be happiest settling down in this stuffy little county, if it’s what she wanted. Or if she wanted to come to Australia and live on the ranch. Or even just travel around. I don’t care. It’s been almost a year, Paul, and I can’t get her out of my mind.”

Paul frowned. “Ranch?”

“Yeah, back home.” Guy shrugged. “I’m a cattle baron.”

“What?” Paul asked, incredulous. 

“You didn’t know? Didn’t Helena tell you or Jenny?” Guy frowned. 

“The Everetts told me you made your living by treasure hunting.” Paul folded his arms. “Who’s running your ranch?”

Guy smiled. “You’ve no idea who I am, do you, mate? You’ve never heard the name Pearce?” He laughed. “Good God, you probably thought I’m some damned gigolo after your sister’s fortune.”

“The thought had crossed my mind, yes.” Paul wasn’t happy to be on the outside of the joke. 

“Paul. I’m the heir to the second largest cattle ranch in Australia. We also have two working opal mines on our lands, and a series of hotels along the coast. You’re standing next to one of the richest men in the world.” Guy cracked a grin, looking down at himself. “I guess the safari clothes don’t exactly give me away.”

He reeled. “I’m sorry... What?” He blinked, stupidly. 

Guy smiled again. “I am rich enough to buy Thistle Hawk about five times over, mate. I offered to buy her Pembyrn, but by the time my cable got through, it’d already been foreclosed. I just do the adventuring stuff while my dad runs things back home. I’ve never been one to settle down, like. Until her…” Guy looked up the stairs. “I’d like your permission to court her. With the intention of marriage, if she wants.”

“My sister never mentioned this about you.” 

“I don’t think Helena told her, either. Well, at least I know she likes me for me.” Guy’s grin was beatific and infectious. “So what do you say? Let me be a friend to her? More if she wants?”

Paul smiled. “If she wants.” They shook hands. 

Jenny started screaming then, nonstop, absolute shrieks of agony. “Jenny!” Guy called, lurching forward. Paul held him back – it took all his strength – and then... the sound of a baby crying. 

Both men paused, smiled at each other, and scrambled two-by-two up the stairs. Paul knocked and eventually Mother came to the door. They burst into the room in time to see Dr. Irons hand Jenny her baby. “Lady Isaacs, you have a son.”

“A son!” Mother cried triumphantly. 

“Oh....” Jenny breathed, exhausted. She looked down at her baby and smiled. “Hello, there, little one.”

“Jenny, dearest,” Paul said, going to the bed to kiss her head and look at the little thing. It was bald and pink and wrinkled and perfectly hideous in that adorable way newborns are. “He’s lovely.”

The baby stopped crying and looked curiously up at Jenny. “He’s beautiful.”

Guy cleared his throat. “Congratulations, Jenny.” He smiled sheepishly and started backing away to the door. “I’ll just... uh... sorry to intrude... You’re all right, though, right?” He stepped forward. “Do you need anything?”

Jenny smiled, a bead of sweat trickling off her forehead. “Guy... I’ve decided to name him Cai.”

Guy smiled. “It’s a good name.”

“Yes, it is,” Paul agreed, silently conveying his support to this new suitor. 

Dr. Irons washed his hands and smiled. “All right now. All of you, out. Mother and child and I have some things to finish taking care of.”

He and Guy were like children as Mother ushered them from the room – they peeked around her on their tiptoes, catching a last glimpse at the child before the door closed. 

“Crikey, they’re ugly little things when they come out, huh?” Guy said.

Paul laughed. So hard he had to bend over. 

~*~

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Epilogue**  


In the weeks that followed, Jenny and Cai recuperated at Thistle Hawk. Mother stayed on to help care for the infant and, thanks to Rupert’s excellent suggestion, Paul hired a Nanny to pick up the slack in the night. Guy took rooms in town and visited Jennifer almost daily – Mother was certain they’d make a match by the end of the year if not sooner. 

Russell spent most of his days with Max and the new boy, training for races that Paul sent them out to win all over England. Both lads got on quite famously – against the odds – and won many sets together. Russ was happy that summer, for to be honest, he was very, very good at winning and he enjoyed it very much. 

The nights... the nights were a little harder to come by. With Mother and Jenny back in the house, inviting Russell into the drawing room to play was as much as he dared do. But he often went on late night walks where he ended up in the woodhouse, and then Russ would grab him up like a drowning man would clutch at a raft, and they made love until dawn. 

Round about July, Mother started making clucking noises about Brighton. Paul sent her on holiday, enjoying his time with Jenny and Cai – who was beautiful beyond imagining. His dark hair was thick and curly; his eyes, blue as a summer sky. Paul liked having the little one around – he especially liked the way Guy was hell-bent on spoiling the lad with toys and books (even though he was too young to even understand that he was being read to) and lots of hugs and kisses and raspberry squirts. 

It was when Mother returned from her holiday saying that Brighton just wasn’t the same – too many commoners, next year she and Dame Dench would go to the south of France for vacation – that he had an idea. 

He met with the lawyers and had it all arranged, and then later one night at dinner, he informed Jennifer that Cai was officially named the sole heir of Thistle Hawk upon Paul’s death. In the meantime, she and Cai were welcome to remain at the manor for all their lives (though he was quite certain that they would wind up in Australia in less than a year) but he had decided to take up residence at the cottage in Brighton. To work on his music, he’d said.

He would leave in autumn – right after seeing Max Pirkis off to Eton – and he would be taking Mr. Crowe with him. When asked why he needed the horse-master at Brighton, he’d informed his family that there was very little for a race trainer to do in winter, and besides, as Mr. Crowe played the violin, he was exactly what Paul needed to work on his opus. 

Mother didn’t understand why he would quit the manor, and so he told her to think of it as his own little house in London. Jenny didn’t like him feeling that he had to vacate on her account, but he assured her he much preferred the little cottage and one servant to the big house, in winter. Guy wished him well and promised to look after Jenny and Cai in his absence. He’d had no doubt. 

~*~

When he told Russell the news, the man’s green eyes flashed for a moment. “And who’s to look after my horses?”

Paul grinned. “ _My_ horses. And I’m sure the new boy can manage for the winter, under Mister Edgar’s watchful eye.”

Russ thought about it, realized they’d be alone in the cottage for several months, and quickly made up his mind. “All right then.”

“What’s all this here?” Paul asked, indicating the boxed crates taking up half the stable. 

“Things for Sean and Viggo. They’ve settled in some town in California called San Francisco.”

Paul nodded. “The one with all the gold.”

“And horse races.” Russ smiled. “I’m sending them some of their things. Mostly tack. Those fellows didn’t keep much in the way of possessions, crazy buggers.”

Smiling, Paul sidled up to Russell. “Well, I imagine they’re content with each other.” He placed a chaste kiss on the corner of Russ’s mouth. “Don’t be up too late with this, love. I want you tonight, and tomorrow we see Max off to Eton.”

Russell sighed and Paul stroked his hair back. “Aye. The lad’s up at the woodhouse now, packing all those fancy clothes you got him.”

“Uniforms. They’re required.” Paul shuddered. “Poor bastard.”

“Indeed. Though he’ll have his books, and probably won’t realize he’s got clothes on,” Russ said. “Did I thank you, by the way? For doing this for him?”

Paul smiled. “There’s no need. He belongs to you. You belong to me. It’s what one does... for family.”

Russ kissed him heatedly then, and pushed him away. “Get on. I’ve got more packing to do.”

~*~

The next day was exceptionally hard, because Paul could tell how much Russell was doing his best not to let his smile waver. They rode in the carriage up to Eton – Max nearly burst out of the coach window at the sight of the buildings covered in ivy – and stopped off at Max’s dorm. 

Lots of other freshman lads were moving in that day. Max would be one of the younger ones in this dorm, too, but he shouldn’t have any trouble making friends. Paul smiled – it was bittersweet.

Suddenly Max turned around to look at Russ. “You’ll be all right, sir?”

Russ smiled. “Aye, sparrow. So will you.”

“Don’t worry. I shall write to you often,” Max assured. “Tell you all my news.”

“I’d like that,” Russ said. “But be sure to have fun, too. You needn’t think I’ll ever forget you.”

Paul watched as the boy bounded across the seat and hugged Russell. Charlie and Kenny unloaded his trunk – Paul and Russell walked Max to his room. They met his roommate, who was quiet a charming fellow, and helped him unpack.

When there was nothing left to be done, no further excuse to linger, Russell got down on his knees and whispered to the boy, “I’ve come to think of you as a son. You’ve already made me so proud. I know your mother’s looking down on you from heaven, and she’s bursting with joy to see you here. Now, listen. Study hard, play well, make friends. Enjoy every moment. Write to Lord Bettany and I. And most of all – this is the most important thing you can do for me – take _care_ of yourself, lad. We’ll come for you in the holidays.”

Sniffling a bit, Max clung to Russell for a long time. “Thanks, Russ.” 

Paul kissed the boy’s head and nodded his goodbye – he didn’t trust his voice. They walked silently back to the carriage; Russell sighed deeply when they shut the door. 

“He’ll be just fine,” Paul reassured.

“Are you joking? That boy has the heart of a lion. It’s Eton I feel sorry for.”

Paul chuckled and rapped on the door for Charlie to drive. He held Russell’s hand the entire trip home. 

~*~

A week later he said goodbye to Jenny, Guy, and little Cai, and shared a glass of brandy with Rupert... and Helena – who had joined Jennifer in the Suffragette cause and had taken to smoking and drinking like a man. They toasted a fond farewell. The servants had packed all of his own things (and Russell’s, who had asked to take some books with him) and loaded the carriage again – this time to Brighton cottage. 

The journey there was very pleasant – the leaves turning merry yellows and rich red-browns. Sunshine streamed through the trees. They’d reached the cottage by the end of the day and Russ was very quick about unloading, refusing to let Charlie or Kenny fuss over him. “You take care of Mister Edgar now, lads,” he said by way of goodbye. 

Paul went inside, opened up the shutters to steal the last rays of sunlight, and uncovered the furnishings from their cloth cocoons. Russ put their trunks upstairs and then went around lighting candles until the cottage had a nice, homey feeling about it. 

Then Paul smiled, going into Russ’s strong arms, sharing a long, unadulterated kiss. 

“And how shall we christen this new home of ours, my lord?” Russ growled. 

“Hmm... a glass of champagne?”

Russ shook his head. 

“A duet on the strings?”

Russ shook his head. 

“We could make love on every inch of available surface of the house?” Paul raised an eyebrow.

Russ nodded, leaned in to kiss him, and proceeded to do just that.

The End 


End file.
